


Homecomings

by theywerefireworks (Theywerefireworks)



Series: The Stan Twins [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stancest - Freeform, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theywerefireworks/pseuds/theywerefireworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines hasn't been in this dimension for over 30 years. When he unexpectedly arrives home after such a trying time in his life, there's bound to be some huge adjustments to make, for both him and his twin brother.</p>
<p>NOTE! Stancest is later on, there will be a note on the chapter where it starts. Until then, it's all implied, and can be read as either a brotherly relationship or something more underneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visions and False Realities

Dreams were never something Stanford Pines enjoyed. When he was young, he would tell his mother about what he dreamt the night before and she would give him a long winded lesson on what it all meant. Each answer was different, but similarly mundane; he was going to win money, he was going to get a date, he was going to hurt himself later in the day. After a quick experiment of telling the same dream twice and getting different responses, he realized that- just like her psychic phone business- her words were just empty nonsense. So too were his dreams; they meant nothing, they weren’t special messages, and he just had to deal with that.

But things changed when he got older. He started finding and understanding the unexplained, finally feeling at home with his polydactyly, but like that cat in the old saying, Ford’s curiosity brought more problems than solutions. Suddenly dreams no longer meant nothing, but were recurring, convincing conversations. They were clues into the unknown mysterious dimension, and sometimes he dealt with a specific yellow triangle. A demon, invading his privacy and costing him… well, _everything_ , in the end.

And then he spent _years_ running from horrors best not mentioned, barely sleeping more than a few hours at a time, always waking up before something grotesque found him, monsters stating how they would like to crush his bones into powder, sell his hands for black market value, mutilate his organs, rape his flesh…

“Grunkle Ford, aren’t you listening? I’m telling you my dream from last night!”

His pulse races as a small hand pushes against his arm. He jumps and looks down, fearing the worst – but no, it’s just his great niece, Mabel, grinning at him with her mouth full of metal. As he takes a deep breath to settle his nerves he tries to remember their last bit of conversation. Though his mind had been… _wandering_ as of late, he didn’t think he would be so bad as to dissociate while talking to the kids, of all people. He composes himself, playing along to the girl’s whims.

“Sorry Mabel, please continue.” They were relaxing in the kitchen of the Mystery Shack - _his_ house, repurposed over 30 years into a tourist trap. He’d only been topside a few days since Stanley recklessly pulled him out of the portal, and everything about the house itches at him. His twin brother had taken terrible care of the house in his absence, and it made his skin crawl to see the peeling wallpaper, the broken faucets, the leaking roof,   _the random animal taxidermy strewn about the place where they were supposed to eat food._ He squints at the dirty glass of the window as if it personally offended him and sips his cup of coffee while listening to the rest of Mabel’s dream.

“-and it was so AMAZING because you and Grunkle Stan beat up the giant ice cream puppies and it was RAINING ICE CREAM and there were waffle cones everywhere. I saved the dream boy and we all rode off into the sunset on Waddles. THE END.”

Ford raised an eyebrow and threw her a cheeky grin. “Just _how_ much of your Mabel juice did you have last night before bed again?” The girl really was weird, but he absolutely loved it. Talking to her was an adventure in and of itself.

“Just three glasses! Plus I had some glitter pizza AND IT WAS AMA-AAA-ZING!” She downed her Pitt Cola dramatically and wiped her mouth.

“Well that definitely WILL give you some dramatic dreams, won’t it. Good thing they don’t mean much outside of synapses firing in our brains at night, causing visions and false realities.” He sipped his coffee again but almost choked on it when Mabel **slammed** her fist onto the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers. He peeked over at her as she glared at him. He ran over the conversation in his brain - had he offended her? He didn’t really _get_ the kids yet and-

“Grunkle Ford! How could you say that? You know as well as I do that dreams can be real! I mean, you dealt with that weird _triangle dream demon_ , right?”

Ford felt a lump form in his throat and set his coffee down gently. He tried for a deep breath, but it came out more ragged than he would like. He did his best to steady himself, to focus on the 12-year-old girl, but the world swam. He could see her saying something, but the voice in his ears wasn’t hers.  
  
_“You think you’re so clever? You can’t hide from me forever…”_

He was brought back to reality with a quick, firm swap to his shoulder. He jumped and turned, seeing his brother standing there with a rolled up magazine.

“Mabel! Been looking everywhere for ya. Your pig decided to run off with my slippers again. Be a dear and fetch them for me. He always seems to rip them when I try to take them.”

“You bet, Grunkle Stan!” she replied cheerily. She hopped from her seat and waved goodbye to Ford. “See you at dinner, Grunkle Ford!”

Ford didn’t realize just how tense he had gotten until he let out a breath and slumped forward in his chair after Mabel had exited, looking for her wayward pig. His hands were gripping the cup in front of him far too tightly, his 12 fingers holding onto it as if it was his only lifeline. Without looking at his twin, he simply said. “I appreciate the interruption. I don’t think Mabel needs to know more than she already does about certain dream demons.” 

“Whatever. Don’t mention it,” he replied gruffly, waving off the gesture. Ford didn’t respond, instead hoping that his brother would take the silence as a hint to leave. His pulse was still elevated and he could feel his limbs shaking. He didn’t want anything to happen while his brother was there. He didn’t want him to -

“Hey, uh, it’s been a few days, but are you doing okay? Coming back from crazy sci-fi dimensions has to have some kind of… jet-lag baggage attached to it, right?”

“I’m fine Stan.” _Goddamnit,_ Ford thought. This is what he _didn’t_ want. He could handle this, he knew. It was all a process of logically reminding himself, is all. He didn’t need Stan to worry. He set his jaw and rubbed his hands around his coffee mug. It was hardly comforting, as the liquid inside had long since lost it’s heat. Over his shoulder, Stan sighed.

“Look, I mean, I might not want you getting buddy-buddy with the kids, but you can still talk to me. I’m… I’m still your _twin_ , Stanford.”

The feeling of a hand on his shoulder was like an electric shock and Ford jumped away from it, shrinking from the touch. He stood up quickly, finally relinquishing his hold on the mug and facing his brother. Stan looked at him, taken aback.

“I’m _fine_ , Stanley. I didn’t come through that portal just to deal with your sympathy pity.”

Stan frowned and opened his mouth to retort, but it was too late. Ford was already moving, getting as much distance from his brother as he could. He didn’t want a fight; not here, not now. In mere seconds, he had strode through the living room, to the gift shop, and had disappeared into the basement. He didn’t stop until he hit the elevator, where he slumped against it, pressing the down button. As soon as the gate opened up, he hit the far wall and slid to the floor, allowing the darkness to swallow him as he descended.

* * *

_He was hiding behind a bookshelf in a rundown library, legs shaking, weapon close. He knew he should be running, but he had been running for what felt like days. His arms, legs, everything, felt like jello, soft and useless. He tried to control his breathing but he knew he wouldn’t be able to soon. Panic was setting in, descending upon him like a dark cloud. A wave of cold fear washed over him as he heard, he heard his voice…_

_**“I have a riddle for you… who has 6 fingers on each hand and is nothing but a lost scared fool?”** Stanford held his breath and stayed as still as possible. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He didn’t know if he could banish him this time. He didn’t know if he had the power to stop him if he ever found him today._

**_“You know, it’s really not that hard! You know it’s you, right? And you didn’t even respond! Someone clearly doesn’t want to have FUN today.”_ **

_Suddenly a face appeared before him, eyes full of unseen horrors, mouth in full terrifying grin. His stomach dropped, fear gripping him._

**_“Guess whoooo?”_ **

* * *

Stanford bolted awake, panic seizing him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses but that didn’t stop him from staring out into the darkness, searching for his attacker. His hand stuck out instinctively, searching for the knife he constantly had at the ready. When he found nothing, his breathing hitched, chest constricting. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he jerked, his right arm swinging around, hoping to land in a lucky blow. It never makes it though; the punch is caught mid swing, causing Ford to struggle against whoever is waiting in the gloom.

“TOUCH ME AND I SWEAR I’LL KILL YOU!” He yells, twisting to face his attacker, stopping dead in his tracks when he’s greeted with his own face frowning back at him. He pulls away, but can’t go anywhere; his arm and shoulder are still pinned in the grip of this strong double. His breathing comes out in small whines and he struggles like a panicking coyote caught in a trap _.It can’t end like this_ , he thinks, _It can’t end like-_

“Stanford.” The name makes him stop dead, eyes wide, heart pounding out of his chest. His ears are ringing but he feels like he recognizes the voice. A voice he swears he hasn’t heard for 30 years…

“Stanford, snap out of it, it’s _me_. If you keep struggling, you’re gonna hurt yourself. I don’t need something _else_ to try and “cleverly explain” to the kids, you know.” Ford stares at his twin and obeys. As soon as he does, Stan lets go of him and reaches out in the dark. He swims in and out of focus, making Ford’s eyes strain even harder to follow him. Next time he sees his brother again, he’s placing his hands on either side of Ford’s face, coming into greater clarity as he does so.

“There, now at least your aim can get a _little_ better,” Stan huffs to him, slumping back into his chair. Ford took his eyes off his brother and adjusts his glasses, taking everything in more carefully. His body was still shaking, but he knew he just needed to distract himself… he would be fine. His eyes roam the room, trying to get his breathing in order. _It was a dream, it was just a fucking dream._ He repeats it over and over, doing his best to ground himself back to reality. He sees a small light behind Stan and a book open on the table. Stan’s fez sits on top of the pages, keeping them from falling shut. Ford sighs deeply, rubbing eyes and swinging his legs around on the bed he had set up for himself downstairs. He was shaky, but he was holding off the panic. For now, at least.

“Lee, what the hell are you doing down here.”

“Still not up for saying _‘thank you_ ’, I see,” his brother retorted bitterly. Ford growled at him. He stood up, looking for a shirt. He didn’t think he would be sleeping again any time soon.

“Please kindly fuck off, Stan.”

“Oh, because you’re handling this _so well_ on your own.”

“I am. I have a system. I don’t need you interrupting it.” He found a shirt and threw it over his head.

“Riiight, how’s that working out for ya? Because your attacks are getting worse instead of better, you know.”

Ford stiffened, turning to face his brother as he tugged his shirt into place. His was livid as he stared at Stan, and his brother, being the stubborn _goat_ that he was, glared over his glasses right back.

“How long have you known about this,” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He flexed his hand, open and closed, mentally chastising himself for thinking he could hide _this_ from his twin.

“Ever since you got back. I’ve been checking up on you, since we both share the wonderful trait of being terrible sleepers.”

Ford runs a hand over his face and looks away. He can’t handle the look Stan keeps throwing his way. He doesn’t want his pity, he doesn’t want his worry. His brother had  _always_ worried about him and goddamnit, he can handle this on his own. He handled 30 years on his own, he doesn’t need this support now. His breathing picks up and he paces around a bit, feeling more jittery than he would like. He closes his eyes, trying so hard to will himself into not breaking down in front of his brother.

Stan stands up and goes to him, placing another hand on his shoulder. Ford shudders and twitches under the touch, and Stan removes his hand like he hit a hot iron. Ford wipes his eyes, feeling the wetness there. The look on his brother’s face is killing him. He would rather be 30 more years behind the portal than to see his brother’s face look that hurt, because of _him_.

“I didn’t want this Stan. I don’t want this. I don’t want to see your face like that. I- … please. Just leave me here.”

But Stan didn’t move, his face set. So Ford starts pacing again, trying to shake the terrible rubbery feeling out of his limbs. He huffs out a breath which turns into a quick laugh. He swallows and stifles it as best he can. Still though, he continues to move around and move away. Anything that’s nowhere near Stanley.

“You know I blamed you for a long time, Stan. I blamed you for pushing me in the portal. I blamed you for “not doing anything”. I blamed you for not getting me out sooner. I blamed you for so many things. To tell you the truth I still do.”

The last words hung heavy in the air. Both of them were silent, neither being brave enough to break the suffocating atmosphere. Ford paces a bit more, sits down on his bed, looking anywhere but directly at his brother. When he does glance over, he sees that Stan has never moved, never budged. He just stands there, like a statue. Ford’s pulse quickens and he glances away again.

After what feels like an eternity, Stan finally sighs and cracks his back. The noise makes Ford jerk back up, with just enough time to see Stan pass in front of him on his way to the elevator. Without thinking, Ford’s hand darts out, and 6 fingers wrap around Stan’s wrist. Stan jumps, but Ford’s grip is strong. He hears a gravelly growl escape his brother’s mouth.

“What? _What?_ It’s clear you don’t want me to stay, so I’m leaving you here. Deal with this yourself;  rot in this basement for all I care. It would be suitable, really…” Stan trails off as he looks down at his brother’s face. Ford wasn’t hiding the panic he felt anymore, the terror shining up at Stan like a horrible beacon.

“Sometimes he looks like you, and I-... I can never do it, Stan. He knew that was my biggest weakness.” Stan stares at him, eyes as big as saucers. Ford drops his hand and brings it to his lap. He looks away, knowing how vulnerable he suddenly sounds. But his brother needs to hear this; needs to understand. “I always hated it when we fought. So much so, that I couldn’t even fight a dream demon _disguised_ as you. I still hate it when we fight, Stanley. I really do.”

To that, Stan said nothing. He simply sits down on the bed, the weight a long-forgotten sensation to Ford. He looks up at Stan’s face, really meeting his eyes for the first time in 30 years. It always amazed him how they looked so much like his own, but so different at the same time. Stan grabs his shoulders, the weight a sudden comfort. For the first time, Ford leans into the support.

“Stanford, you need to calm down. You need to get some sleep.”

“I can’t. I don’t know what’s waiting for me.” He tried to look away but Stan makes a noise in his throat, keeping Ford locked on him.

“ _I’ll_ be waiting for you. I’ll be here. I won’t leave your side.”

“Stan, don’t -”

“ _FORD_.” His voice sounds urgent, and Stanford stares at him. “I’m not gonna leave you alone on this. Do you hear me? _You are not alone in this.”_

Stanford searches Lee’s face, looking for a doubt, a twitch, a sign of _something_ that says he's faking and would leave as soon as Ford fell asleep -- but there was nothing. Just the same, stubborn resolution he had seen since he was young. 30 years and his brother hadn’t changed a bit. Finally, he gave a small smile, the weight of the panic leaving his shoulders.

“I hear you Stan, I do. I- thank you.”

“Yeah yeah, save it for the judge, Sixer,” he quips back, but Ford barely heard him. The last thing he remembers before falling into sleep was his brother’s weight against his, and a warm, soft wetness falling lightly on his forehead.

 


	2. It's Genetic

Stanley Pines woke up staring at a dark, pipe-riddled ceiling. He frowned to himself - it took a few seconds to remember just where he had fallen asleep, but as his memory of last night came back, he frowned even harder. He was lying in a bed, but it sure wasn’t his. His arms folded over his chest reflexively as he mentally steeled himself. Disapproval and annoyance set on his face, he turned his head to the right.

His brother stared right back at him.

“Shit!” Stan started, pinching his eyes from under his glasses. _“Jesus_ Ford, do you have to be so, I dunno, _creepy_ all the time? How long have you been staring at me sleeping?” Stanford simply shrugged. He was lying on his side, arms subsequently crossed. Stan squinted at how they mirrored each other almost too well.

“It’s like you said, isn’t it? Jet-lag, or some similar nonsense. I don’t sleep for long periods of time anymore. Don’t worry though, I haven’t been up _that_ long.”

“Well I’m so _thrilled_ to be the first thing you see in the morning. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Stan sat up, swung his legs around and stretched his back. The bed hadn’t been a terrible sleeping spot, but its width wasn’t built for two grown men. Stan made a mental note to sleep upstairs tomorrow night. Or was it tonight? He shook his head absently and stood up. The dull lights from the working machinery kept things lit enough to see, and he chanced a glance at the clock on the desk. It read 6:30am. Good. He could still get upstairs before the Twins woke up and the Shack needed repairing.

A bucket of cold water dropped in his stomach at the thought of the Shack. _Better start counting the days,_ he thought to himself, and glanced trepidatiously in the direction of his brother in the darkness. Ford was sitting up himself now, rubbing the back of his head. Stan harrumphed under his breath, shuffling over to the desk. He grabbed his fez from it’s place on top of the book he was reading and took a mental note of which page he was on. If there was any annoying habits he picked up from his brother, it was _reading_. When you have 30 years to yourself, you get bored.

He placed the fez back on his head, adjusting it slightly. He turned around, ready to get back upstairs.

“Well, as much fun as it is to be your shoulder to cry on, I gotta get - _AAH!_ ” Stan flinched back, seeing Stanford standing mere inches behind him. His brother squinted at him, as if he was another creature of study. He was uncomfortably close, which only caused Stan’s aggravation to grow. “ _Hey!_ Remember what I said about the creepy thing? I’m not one of your science experiments, so back the hell up.” Stan swatted at Ford’s head, causing the other man to duck away a few inches. He frowned at Stan. Stan frowned right back. His gaze was almost invasive, and it made Stan feel self-conscious.

“What if I asked you to possibly _be_ an experiment? For uh… science?” Ford waved his hand in the air, acting as if what he was suggesting was dismissive. Stan definitely did not see it that way, and his brain envisioned himself on a table being bagged and tagged by his own twin. Or did he mean a different kind of…? His face suddenly felt hot.

“ **NO**. You _PROMISED_ years ago, when we were kids. You think I would forget that?!” Though it was hard to see in the dark, Ford definitely looked taken aback and his face flushed in embarrassment. Stan watched him put a hand over face.

“Oh god, Stan, not like that! I’m not gonna _dissect you_ or anything. I just… “ he breathed and straightened, as if readying himself for what he was about to say. “I… I may need your help.”

“Oh-hooh, now the big shot needs my help. What, do you want me to coif your perfect fly-away hair?” Stan waved his arms and raised an eyebrow incredulously. Whatever it really was, Stan was prepared to say no.

Ford on the other hand, paced. It was like it was last night, and Stan suddenly felt a thrill of worry run down his spine. Was his brother going to have another attack? Or was he just being his usual (well, usual for the Ford he knew) pent-up-energy self?

“Good god Stan, I’m not used to this. I haven’t had to ask for anything from you in 30 years and we both know how that turned out.” He wiped his mouth and stopped, tapping his foot. He still didn’t look at Stan when he spoke next.

“I may need you to sleep down here with me for the time being.”

Stan gaped at him. _“What?”_

“I dunno what it is about you but… I slept restfully. I didn’t have visions, or nightmares or… “ He breathed a little too roughly and Stan twitched towards him involuntarily. He was ready for the worst. _Just in case._  
  
“I didn’t wake up to an attack. For the first time since being here… Hell, the first time in a very long time, Stan. I slept soundly while I knew you were down here.”

Stan let the weight of those words fall on him and watched his brother carefully. This was clearly killing Ford to say; he was again making himself vulnerable to his twin, and clearly wasn’t used to it at all. Not so for Stan. In their younger years he was Ford’s one and only sounding board. Every emotion, every doubt, every single confession… he had heard it all. Stan was used to helping out Ford. Now though, it was as if Ford was willing himself to _not_ need Stan, like he couldn’t handle that truth of the universe being the opposite. Stan cocked his head and grinned, taking advantage of his brother’s lucid vulnerability.

“Need me to rock you to sleep, baby bro? Is that what you’re telling me?” He laughed at the utter embarrassment blossoming on his twin’s face.

“Are you kidding me, Stan? I’m asking you for something important here, you clod!”

“Oo-ooh, maybe I’ll bring down some of your favorite bedtime stories! ‘ _The Origins Of Species_.’ A real snore fest, it’ll be perfect! I think I saw it up in the attic…”

Ford let out a loud, aggravated sigh and Stan only guffawed louder. It was good enough for him to forget their situation, to forget how hurt he felt when he looked at Ford, and to see him as the 18-year-old kid he still was on the inside. He could see the Stanford he knew. _He’s still in there yet._

Stan wiped a tear from his eye and saw his brother had turned away from him, back hunched and arms crossed. Immediately the jovial atmosphere disappeared. On instinct, he reached out to Ford but caught himself, remembering how he had acted every other time he had tried to touch him so far. Instead his hand went to the back of his neck, scratching at it.

“Aww Ford, c’mon, don’t be like that.”

Ford turned around at his name, chin jutting out in an indignant frown. Stan had to hold back another laugh at his brother’s ridiculous face. Ford could tell, his frown deepening even further.

“It’s good to see you still can’t take _anything_ seriously.”

“Yeah well, I’m old now, I can get away with it.”

“ _Seriously_ , Stan. I…” he took another deep breath. “I need you on this one. I don’t know if it’s because we’re brothers or twins or…” he scratched at his neck looking at the floor. “Whatever it is, you help me sleep and I want to see why. If it can help cure me of this panic then…it would be really beneficial to me, Stan.”

Stan dropped his arms to his side, surprised at his brother’s confession.

“Of course. I’ll be here. You know I will be. Hell, I’ve been down here without you knowing. You probably didn’t need to even ask.”

A small chuckle escaped Ford at that. “And you call me creepy for watching you sleep for five minutes?”

Stan shrugged.  “Guess it’s genetic.”

“One more thing, Stan.” For the millisecond of happiness that escaped, it was 1000 more of seriousness. Stan frowned.

“Make it quick, I gotta get upstairs before the kids think I got lost on my way to the bathroom again.”

“It’s about them. I don’t think I want them knowing about… how _bad_ I am, right now. Please don’t tell them about this? I think I can control myself around them but - “

“Yeah, I get it,” Stan said, cutting him off with a hand wave. “I lied about who I was for 30 years, I think I can handle not telling the niblings that you’re having panic attacks.”

Ford let out a relieved smile. “I knew I could count on you, Stan.”

Stan’s heart constricted at the sight of Ford’s smile. He gulped the lump in his throat. “Any time, Poindexter.” He glanced around the room distractingly, and his eyes landed on the clock again. 7:05am. He had to get going upstairs.

“When will breakfast be ready?” Ford asked him gloom.

“Oh, uh… probably in an hour, knowing how fast Mabel cooks.”

Ford nodded. “I’ll make sure not to miss it.”

* * *

“I have to say Mabel, you have _quite_ the way of capturing my face in scrambled eggs.”

“Well if you think about it, I’ve had LOTS of practice.”

Stan looked over his newspaper at his nerd brother admiring his breakfast and an overzealous Mabel soaking up every second of it. His mug sat on the table, but it remained untouched for the time being; Mabel had also volunteered to make the coffee that morning, and while Stan wasn’t going to stop her, he sure wasn’t going to indulge. Ford though? Ehh… 50/50 chance he’d down it anyway.

“Yeah, she’s done my face more than once in eggs. Also in pancakes. And some… weird glittery mess…”

“You mean the spaghetti? Heh, yeah, that was my masterpiece,” Mabel stated with a smug grin, admiring the fingers that had created the monstrosity that Stan had eaten only out of love for the child. His stomach, however, still hated her for it. Stan made a face just thinking about it.

“Heh, well, I’m sure the eggs will be delicious.” Ford ate the eggs happily- almost too happily. Stan raised an eyebrow and went back to reading about how many toe nail clippings Toby Determined had collected last week. Mabel sat down and enjoyed her breakfast of pancakes and Mounty Man syrup, while Dipper sat across from her, his nose stuck in one of Ford’s journals, spoon halfway between mouth and cereal.

“Great Uncle Ford, I was reading this page last night in your journal and I can’t help but wonder what you meant about the Floating Cliffs. Why don’t you think they’re naturally occurring? And are they really “floating?” They seem to be rocks with a sort of formation created through erosion but - “

Stan coughed and Dipper paused, turning his head to look at him. Stan could see Ford stiffen in his peripheral and then shove a large amount of his egg-face into his mouth.  

“What? Grunkle Stan, do you know?”

“No, but I doubt even Poindexter here figured _that_ one out. They’re weird, sure, but what isn’t around here?”

Dipper frowned, trying to figure it all out. “Great Uncle Ford, did you ever figure it out? The cliffs I mean.” Ford beat a fist against his chest, choking on the chunk of egg. Mabel smacked his back hard, and Ford coughed dramatically. When he was able to talk again, he finally turned to Dipper.

“If I did, I couldn’t tell you. But if you must know, I initially suspected magnets. _Irregularly powerful_ magnets, but magnets nonetheless.”

Dipper hummed loudly about the answer he was given, clicking his pen absently. “I figured it must be-”

“Trust me Dipper,” Ford butt in,  “this town may be weird, but not everything is _that_ mysterious. The stomach-faced duck, for example, was just a duck with a stomach on it’s face.”

“I guess…” Dipper said thoughtfully. He clicked his pen for a while, staring at the pages intently.

Stan placed the paper down and checked his watch. “Woah kiddos, it’s getting late. Go get ready for the day, we got a lot of work to do before the Shack is as good as new.”

Ford pushed himself away from the table and stood up as well. “And that’s my cue to make myself scarce and work out things downstairs.” He bowed dramatically to Mabel, and she giggled. “The meal was wonderful my dear. I look forward to dinner.” And with that, he left with a flick of his coat. From the gift shop, the faint sound of the secret door opening and closing could be heard.  Dipper looked after him disparagingly.

“But- wait! I have so many more questions–!” He was interrupted by Mabel punching him in the arm.

“JEEZ bro-bro, can’t you leave the poor guy alone? He’s more interesting when he’s all ~mysterious~ anyway.” She wiggled her fingers in his face and he pushed her away, laughing. “Last one up the stairs has to clean the gutters!” And with that she ran off, getting a strong lead. Dipper jumped down off his chair, ready to chase after his sibling, when Grunkle Stan caught his arm before he left.

“Hey. Dipper.” The young boy looked up at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah Grunkle Stan?”

Stan rubbed his neck. How was he gonna say this? “Look. I know my brother is the author of the journals, but he hasn’t been around for _30 years_. Give him some time to acclimate before playing 20 questions, okay?”

Dipper looked down at the book in his hands. “Yeah, okay…” Stan slapped at his back, causing the kid to cough.

“Hey! I’m serious here, no half-baked responses! Can you just promise me this? It’s for my brother’s sake. One twin to another?” Stan gave him a hopeful smile. Dipper made a face but sighed loudly in the end.

“Okay Grunkle Stan. I’ll lay off the questions for a little while.”

“A week. At least.”

“5 days,” Dipper retorted back, and Stan grinned. This kid was learning a  thing or two from his old grunkle after all.

“It’s a deal,” he laughed, and shoved him out the kitchen. “Now go catch up to your sister! You have to clean the gutters after all.”

The look on Dipper’s face after that was enough to make Stan laugh so hard, he couldn’t hear the boy’s protests for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great, now I have a working title and 2 chapters. Do I have any idea where this is going? Not really, but I've apparently got too many ideas to stop now. Expect more chapters in the future!


	3. Scars

It ended up being a long, hot day for everyone. Since being turned upside down, the town of Gravity Falls had been slowly recuperating; the Mystery Shack, being the unknown center of the chaos, had taken a particularly hard hit. Stan was set on sparing every expense possible, which meant having his family and employees do most of the heavy lifting this time around. Fixtures needed rebuilt, foundation lines needed to be checked, the totem pole needed straightening, the stairs needed re-planked, and the sign needed a total overhaul after snapping in half, and losing three letters. Even Ford had popped his head out of the basement to survey the progress and ended up helping Stan and Soos reset the axle on the golf cart. After putting at least a sizable dent in their repairs, Stan had Dipper put out a few more “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS” signs and called it a day. 

Ford wiped his brow and tugged at his turtleneck. He had long since set aside the coat in the Oregon heat, but had insisted on keeping the sweater on. When Stan protested, Mabel offered to help by showing off her secret “in-sweater air conditioner”; a water spray fan set to HIGH all day. Stan had rolled his eyes and swatted a hand at them, but Ford had ignored him and instead graciously accepted his great niece’s brilliant idea. In the end it had turned out to have multiple flaws in the system. To keep his mind occupied, he laid them out in his brain, finding ways to improve on her design to help her produce perfectly acclimatizing long-sleeved apparel.

For now though, he made his way around back to the couch on the porch, where he had left his coat. He stopped, surprised, when he saw Dipper running towards him, long coat in hand.

“Hey Great Uncle Ford! I uh, I figured you’d want this so… I brought it to you. Just to -” he coughed, rocking on his heels, trying and failing to look nonchalant. “-save you the trip of going around back. It was a long day and all, so you’re probably tired.”

Ford smiled down at him. “Thank you Dipper but really, you didn’t have to.” He gave the boy a sly wink. “I may be Stan’s twin, but you don’t have to suck up to me to get me to tell you secrets about Gravity Falls.” Dipper’s eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to say something, but Ford caught Stan in his peripheral and flicked his eyes to him before returning to Dipper with a raised eyebrow. Dipper looked over his shoulder and jumped when he saw Stan.

“Right! Uh-haha- I’ll talk to you later Grunkle Ford!” And then he ran off, blushing and sweating. Somewhere, he could hear Mabel’s laughter; no doubt at Dipper’s reaction. Ford shook his head and threw his coat over his shoulder and walked up the back porch to where Stan was glowering at him, arms folded.

“You shouldn’t encourage him, you know. He’s too overzealous already.” Ford made a small laugh at his bro, entering the gift shop. Stan followed after him.

“A kid can still dream, right? Plus, maybe one day I really will tell him -”

“- all the crazy shit you get up to and he’ll get hurt or _worse_.” Stan’s voice was steely and Ford turned to look at him. If Stan could look angry at his brother, this was the closest he’d ever seen since… well, _since he fell in._

“Stan I’m not-”

“I’m _serious_ about what I said a few days ago, Ford. It’s-it’s _fine_ that they like you, but I do not want them hurt. Dipper almost killed us all by raising the dead from a chant in _your_ journal. I don’t know what you did for almost 11 years in this place, but whatever it was, all of it could maim a 12-year old boy, or get him killed or-”

“Stan if anything so much as laid a finger on one of those kids, I would _personally rip it’s arms off in one of the 34 ways I know how to_.” Ford’s words were deadly serious, and for a moment he looked through Stan, not really focused on his shocked face. He blinked and then met his brother’s eyes, before turning away from him again. “Stan, if anything, you should be _more_ at ease now that I’m here. At least I _know_ what’s out there. And I know each and every way to stop it.”  

He walked up to the vending machine and punched in the code, giving the door clearance to swing open. The cool air of the basement wafted through and it felt like the sweetest of reliefs. He looked back at his brother, who was still stiff with indignant anger. He softened his expression for a second.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m not going to tell him anything I don’t think he could handle. Hell, there’s secrets about this place I probably couldn’t even tell _you_.” Stan blinked and opened his mouth but Ford put up a hand and shook his head to silence him. Instead he simply continued.

“Will I see you downstairs later?”

Stan gave him a long searching look and Ford wondered if he would actually keep his word. After a few seconds though, Stan looked away, and when he found his voice it was scratchy with emotion.

“Yeah. I gotta let the kids settle, but I’ll be down later.”

Ford let out a breath and nodded. After that, he disappeared downstairs, the sound of the door closing behind him contrasting loudly in the quiet of the basement.

—–

Stan came down the elevator around 4 hours later. Ford didn’t turn to look at him when he came through the elevator; his eyes were constantly flicking between one of the pages of Journal 1 and the monitors scattered around the portal’s main lab entrance. He muttered a few fractions under his breath, shook his head, and scribbled something out to re-write it. It wasn’t until he got hit in the head with something large, soft, and solid that he turned to glare at Stan. His brother stood there grinning, a sleeping bag under his arm. He was in his pajamas but his fez must have been left upstairs for the night. Ford picked up the pillow that was thrown at him and tossed it back at Stan. He glanced at the sleeping bag with a raised eyebrow before looking at his brother.

“Two things, Stan.” He held up a finger. “One: I think we’re both a little too old for pillow fights.” He held up another finger. “Two: What’s with the sleeping bag?”

Stan billowed out his sleeping bag and laid it out on the floor a bit of ways away from Ford’s cot. “What, you think I can’t have my own sleeping space? Ain’t no way _both_ of us are gonna fit on that measly bed without getting uncomfortable.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to have an issue falling asleep next to me last night.” Stan paused for a second, but then kept fixing up his own sleep station.

“Yeah, well, that was different. You were flipping out on me. What else could I do? I was afraid to leave your side for fear you would freak out in your sleep again.” He fluffed a pillow. “Tonight, however, you are still pretty sane, so I’m not as worried. So I’m here for your ‘experiment’s sake’ only.”

“Today was a good day for me.”

“Yeah, almost _too_ good.” Stan said back, looking up from his work briefly. “Seriously, Stanford, that thing with Dipper? Don’t do it. Don’t tempt him. I have an agreement with him that he won’t ask you _any_ questions for five days. And not just for his sake; what if you’re having a ‘good day’ and he asks you a question and that question just _happens_ to set you off, huh? What will you do then?” Ford stiffened but didn’t have an answer for Stan. He went back to his book and tried to write down the numbers on the screen to his left, but he had suddenly lost his interest. He sighed and tossed the book on the table, sitting down and spinning around to face Stan from the chair.

“Okay, so maybe I got… carried away. I don’t want the kid to _hate me_ , Stan.”

“Maybe it’d be better if he did.”

“Sounds like something you would say. That it’s… 'better’ to hate me.” This time Stan unraveled a blanket almost a little TOO forcefully, laying it down on his sleeping bag without looking at Ford. A swollen pit of guilt grew in his stomach and he swallowed. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the grease there. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean it-”

“No, trust me, you’re only sorry because you know you’re right. It would have all been a million times easier if I could just hate you and be done with it. And yet,” he fluffed a pillow. “Here I am.”

Ford didn’t know how to respond to that, so instead he busied himself with the separate pieces of machinery around the basement. He hoped that keeping his hands busy would keep his brain preoccupied like it had all day earlier, but now he kept running over the different conversations him and his brother had had over the years. He turned off monitor after monitor, dimming the room to a respectable gloom that was suitable for sleeping. He then check the surveillance camera, and checked the local security. As he puttered, Stan didn’t say anything. His brother’s silence made him twitchy, until finally he said, “I don’t hate you, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” was the gruff response from the shadows. Ford sighed and went to one of the adjacent rooms where he stashed his clothes. He tossed off the sweatshirt and pants and replaced it with a t-shirt and shorts. In the gloom, he could see the shadow of a scar lingering on his left arm. He rubbed at it absently, his brain flicking to the moment he had received the damn thing.

_It was storming, the world was slippery, and he had lost footing. The grenade hadn’t stopped his attacker; only made him angrier and more bloodthirsty. He had had a hard time tracking it in the rain and mud, and damnit all, he had kept his left side wide open. All that monstrosity had needed to do was wait for Stanford to look the wrong way, then sink in those dark claws, taking a chunk of flesh with them…_

“Don’t get lost back there.”

He heard Stan’s voice from a million miles away and snapped back out of his memory, panting. His forehead was beaded with a cold sweat and his hand shook where it held his arm. He straightened up and wiped his face, trying to compose himself before heading over to his cot. If he was lucky, the gloom would hide most of the panic that was threatening to engulf him.

_Breathe in, breathe out. You’re in Gravity Falls Oregon, and your brother is_ alive, _next to you._ He walked back to his bed and pulled apart the covers.

“Sorry, I had been checking some of my traps and-”

“What happened.”

It wasn’t a question.

Ford tossed his brother a look over his shoulder. Stan was comfortably lying on his back in his sleeping bag, hands behind his head, looking up at his twin with a disapproving frown. Ford let out a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Nothing, Stan, it’s fine.”

“You had an attack. Tell me about it.”

Ford sat down on his bed and gave his brother a searching look. He didn’t know if he was ready to recount something from the other side to Stan just yet, not when just the mere thought of it gave him chills. Instead, he rolled up his left sleeve a bit and held it close to Stan where he could see. Stan raised an eyebrow but his eyes widened in shock when he saw the scar.

It was as if Ford’s entire tricep had been ripped asunder, a large chunk missing where his muscle should have been. The lines extended down to his elbow; long painful lacerations shining against his skin. As if the scar itself wasn’t enough to show how severe the gash was, Ford tried fully straightening his arm; it couldn’t make it, and instead stayed stuck at an odd angle.

Ford could see the look on Stan’s face; even in the gloom he could see his brother’s blanched skin. His mouth hung open and he didn’t look away, as if it was too terrible for him to stop seeing.

“Ford _how-_ ”

“You don’t wanna know,” he said, pulling his arm back and tugging his sleeve back in place. “Remember earlier, when you protested me taking off my heavy sweater? Well, let’s just say my arm isn’t the only scar I’m hiding.”

“Yeah well, you’re not the only one.” Ford raised an eyebrow as his brother got up out of his sleeping bag and sat down on the edge of Ford’s bed. He turned away, his back facing Ford. He looked at it uneasily and it only got worse when Stan pointed to his right shoulder. “The kids can _kinda_ see it, but not the whole thing. Branded for eternity by my own brother.”

Stan moved the strap to his sleeveless top and there it was; the burn mark that was etched into his skin 30 years ago. All because Ford was foolish and angry and pushed him against the wall without realizing it. He cursed under his breath and wiped his face.

“I’m so sorry Stanley. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Yeah well, it was 30 years ago. Don’t worry about it. I mean it gets itchy sometimes, and my shoulder tends to tighten up in the cold but-.”

Stan moved to put the strap back up, but Ford beat him to it, placing a hand on the burn mark. He could hear the hiss of Stan’s inhale and he sat upright, as if he was being burned all over again. He kept his hand there though, soaking in the first human skin he’d made contact with in 30 years.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Stan shrugged out of the touch at that and Ford’s fingers felt cold without his brother’s skin under them. “You don’t need to, Poindexter.” The words held a bitterness Ford could taste in the back of his throat and he set his jaw, chewing at his cheek. He looked at Stan but he could see he was too frosty at Ford to continue in conversation. Instead, he slid off the bed and curled back up under his blanket and sleeping bag. Ford laid down himself, the silence between them deafening his ears.

He stared at the ceiling for awhile, willing himself into tiredness but also fearing of ending on a bad note with his brother. His foot twitch impatiently but he did his best to compose himself. Finally, after a few agonizing minutes he sighed and muttered a small, noncommittal, “Goodnight Stanley”. He waited a beat or two; nothing. He rolled over and stared at the wall. _I don’t know what I was expecting_ , he thought bitterly.

“Good night to you too, Sixer. Now shut up and get some shut eye, I’m trying to sleep over here.”

Ford smiled in the darkness, letting out a quiet huff. For the first time in years, he fell asleep with a grin on his face.

Too bad he would wake up four hours later, terror in his eyes and a horrible scream tearing apart his throat.


	4. Capelli's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for chugging these out so fast, the boys just won't stop talking! I may slow down a bit after this while I compose myself. Got a bit more on the horizon, so stay tuned~.

**Glass Shard Beach, 1969**

“I’m telling you, Gigi, it’s unnatural, being allowed in public like that.”

“Filbrick, are you serious? They aren’t harming nobody. Let them love.”

Filbrick Pines let out a breath, arms crossed, his chicken parmesan untouched. The Pines and their twin boys were out to eat for the first time in a long time; a nice Italian restaurant down the street called Capelli’s: “With gnocchi to knock your socks off!” The four of them were sitting at a round booth near the bar; it was a crowded night at the restaurant, so seating had been slim. As their parents talked, Stanley Pines flicked peas at his brother, Stanford, who was trying to catch them in his mouth. Their mother smacked Stan’s hands and they stopped, giggling furiously at each other.

“Act your age, boys! I swear, you’re both 16 going on 6.” In response, the twins protested loudly, Stan rebuking that he was indeed 4 on the inside not 6, and Ford claiming that he was at _least_ 19, mentally, anyway. She rolled her eyes at them and threw her arms up, her bracelets jangling softly at the movement.

“If anything is unnatural here, it’s how you both never fail to get yourselves in trouble. I am helpless here, Filbrick.” Mr. Pines looked at his wife before fixing his firm gaze on his two twin boys. Both of them straightened at once and Filbrick massaged his mustache thoughtfully.

“Finish your separate meals in peace, ya knuckleheads, or I’ll kick you both out of the restaurant myself.” Both boys nodded simultaneously from across the table.

“Yessir,” they said in unison, and they both individually went back to their plates. Stan hunched over his plate, pushing his peas around absently. Ford nudged him and gave him a look that just said _‘It’s Pops, what’re ya gonna do?’_ Stan grinned back at his twin and ate with renewed gusto.

Around the other side of the booth, Stan’s parents went back to their conversation. With Ford no longer distracting him, he couldn’t help his boredom and listened in on his parent’s conversation absently.

“That’s just the thing, Gigi. This _isn’t_ love. But they convinced this entire state that it is. If it must be done, let it be behind closed doors.”

“If you don’t approve, don’t look,” Gigi retorted, chomping on a piece of calamari. “I find it kind of endearing.”

“I wouldn’t be looking, if it wasn’t being shoved in my face.”

Gigi simply rolled her eyes. “Whatever, you stubborn goat of a man.”

Stan glanced at his parents, curious as to what they were talking about but too nervous to raise anything on the subject. He shot Ford a look, raising his eyebrows in question. If anyone would have an answer or an insight, it was his smart-alec brother. Ford met his eyes and he shrugged a millimeter and shook his head half an inch. Stan furrowed his eyebrows and Ford rolled his eyes before motioning to the bar with his head. He then glanced at their parents and went back to chomping on spaghetti. Stan, on the other hand, followed his brother’s hint and looked towards the bar. What he saw made his eyes go wide.

Two men were sitting next to each other on separate stools and while that in and of itself wasn’t at all remarkable, the fact that they were holding hands _was_. It wasn’t a blatant thing though, and someone walking past may not have even noticed. The man on the left had his hand on the leg of his partner, whose hand was on top of his, thumb rubbing against the skin absently. While Stan watched, he saw the man do a quick glance before pecking his partner on the cheek, who blushed and kissed him right back. It was a quick exchange; if Stan had blinked he would have missed it. By the time he had registered what happened, they were back to chatting with other friends, as if the kiss had never existed at all. Their hands, however, never left their spot under the counter.

Stan could feel his cheeks heating up as he stared but he was was brought swiftly back to reality by a sharp pain in his left side. “Ow! Hey!” he shouted, a little _too_ loudly. His parents turned to look at him and his brother. Stan flushed again, but this time, in embarrassment.

“Everything okay, you two?”

“Yeah Mom, Stan just stepped on my toe, so I was evening out the score.” Stan glared at Ford so convincingly that their mom bought it.

“I swear, you two.” She rolled her eyes again and sipped lightly on her glass of wine.

Stan went back to his food, only to have his brother’s knee knock against his own. Stan turned to him, annoyance clear on his face, but Ford wasn’t looking at him. Instead, Ford’s eyes were fixed on the waiter across the room; his hand under the table, however, was scribbling furiously away on the notepad he always had on him. Stan raised an eyebrow, glanced at his parents, and took the note when Ford offered it to him. He chanced a peek, his face heating up a bit as he read his brother’s scratchy handwriting.

 

> _Bro, they’re GAY and it’s SUPER RUDE to stare at them in public._

He felt like his cheeks were burning. He hadn’t realized he had been staring at all; no wonder Ford had elbowed him in the ribs. Stan made a motion for Ford’s pen and wrote a quick reply, passing the note and pen back to him.

 

> _Sorry, didn’t know. Made me feel weird to see them tho, like if I think about McCorkle too much._

Ford read what Stan wrote while Stan busied himself with the linguini on his plate. A few seconds later, Ford cleared his throat.

“Hey mom, is it okay if Stan and I use the bathroom real quick?” Stan opened his mouth to say he didn’t need to go, but another elbow told him to change his tactic.

“Wha - _Ah!_ Yeah, heh, you know, that Pitt Cola, it goes right through me.” Their parents looked at them and merely shrugged. Ford slid out of the booth, Stan following after him. As soon as he was standing, Ford grabbed his arm and led him to the restrooms. As they passed the bar, Stan chanced another glance at the two gentlemen. They were laughing, heads close. His stomach did another weird backflip before Ford pulled him around the corner and the couple was out of sight.

In the dark hallway to the bathroom, Ford pulled his brother close and then knocked on the bathroom door. When nobody responded, they went inside. The bathroom was small; a single unit with a toilet, a sink, and a tacky multi-colored lamp. It smelled of damp mildew, yesterday’s lunch, and leaky faucets. In the mirror, he saw his brother lock the door and turn to glare at his brother’s back. Stan turned to face him, eyes questioning.

“Ford, what-”

“You can’t let Pops know,” Ford said sternly, his face dead serious.

“Let him know what?”

“What you just told me, ya dolt! He’ll think you’re _gay!_ ”

“What? I’m not gay! _I like girls!”_

“Stan, really, I don’t care, but you _might_ be a _little bit gay.”_

“But I’m NOT. I’m not gay.” His face flushed in anger and embarrassment. “Carla makes me feel all… I don’t know, sweaty and awkward.”

“That’s exactly what you just told me about two guys cuddling at a bar together.”

“It’s not that! I mean-! I just -…” He trailed off, looking down.

“Just what?”

“I guess I just, I never even knew it was an _option.”_ Ford blinked at him, a realization dawning on his face.

“You’ve… felt like this before, haven’t you. About guys.” Stan shrugged. He still felt weird and his cheeks still burned, but this was his brother. They told each other everything.

“Yeah, I guess? _Maybe?_ But dad’s always ragging on me to find a girl, settle down, be a man about things, become a breadwinner–” Ford grabbed his shoulders and he stopped rambling.

“Look, this is okay, alright? Mom thinks so, she wouldn’t care. I don’t care.” The sincerity of Ford’s words lifted Stan’s heart. “But… you CAN’T let dad know, okay? Don’t let mom know because she’ll tell dad.”

“What about you?” Ford grinned.

“Like I would spill the beans on you, hah! I thought you were my twin adventurer, you think I’m gonna tattle on you and who you crush on? Besides… at least you crush on people. There’s apparently nobody out there for me.”

“Hey, you’ll find someone out there for you some day, okay? And if not, you’ll always have me.” Ford smiled at his brother’s confidence but Stan could tell his eyes didn’t believe it for a second.

A knock on the door made them both jump; they were still in the bathroom and had clearly lost track of time. Stan’s heart skipped a beat and Ford yelled out “Uh-just-just a second!” Stan stifled a laugh and his brother blushed in anger. He grinned back at Stan, punching him lightly in the arm.

“Come on, if we don’t go back, Pops will think we fell in.” They stepped outside, greeted by a large man waiting his turn to use the restroom. He was at least twice the size of the door frame and a bruiser-type to boot. His eyes flicked between the boys, who stared up at him in awe.

“…I’m not even gonna ask,” the man said gruffly, and the boys scampered past him, laughing all the way back to their table.

 

* * *

 

**Gravity Falls, 2012**

Stanley Pines was familiar with a lot of dark things. He had seen a lot of shit in his life; he had smuggled across state lines, he had stolen identities, done a large busted heist in Colombia, spent time in London before escaping, lived homeless for almost 10 years, and had at least 8 different people and 2 different cartels try to murder him. He has been suffocated, starved, alone, and helpless before. He’s seen it all.

But for all his experience, nothing could have prepared him for the horrors that gripped his brother that night.

It wasn’t like the other times. Before, when Stan watched over his brother’s sleep, it was as if he was having night terrors he couldn’t wake up from. Stan would put a hand on his shoulder and he would settle back down; he would then head upstairs and eye him carefully the next morning. Last night, Ford had started awake and almost punched Stan. Stan could handle that as well; his brother was strong, but he was still stronger. But this…this _bloodcurdling scream?_ Was different from all of that and so, so much worse.  

He leapt awake, heart beating furiously in his chest. Fumbling for his glasses, he put them on, jumping over to his brother’s bed. Stanford was convulsing, body covered in sweat, hands gripping at his head as if it was going to explode. The sound coming out of him didn’t even sound human; more like a panicking animal in the throes of death. For a second Stan was frozen in time, too scared to move, too scared to do anything.

“Jesus Christ, Stanford what happened to you in there?”

He had said the sentence in a whisper, only meant for his ears while he tried to figure out what to do first. But at the sound of a voice Ford jerked his body up, spinning around towards him with pinpoint accuracy. He moved fast; like a snake he struck Stan and smashed him into the wall. Stan barely had time to register it at all until the pain laced up his back on impact. He coughed once and then felt something tight grabbing his throat. Instinctively, his hand shot up, looking to remove the obstruction. His stomach went cold when he realized there were 6 stronger fingers there, that weren’t intent on letting go.

His brother’s face was close to him, but it wasn’t his brother at all. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, seeing through him with a rage he had never known Stanford could possess. He struggled under his brother’s weight pressing him into the wall. Like a constrictor, with every movement Stan made, Ford tightened his grip, his breathing ragged but his arms steady.

“Ford jesus it’s me I’m here _it’s me-_ ” he tried to choke out the words but they only seemed to infuriate him more.

 _“If you think I’m going to fall for those cheap theatrics you have another thing coming you sick sunnovabitch,”_ Ford’s voice was harsh, ragged, and a thousand miles away. Stan gasped under his brother’s grip, spots showing up in his vision.

“Fucking choked to death by my own brother, what a way to go,” he whispered out bitterly. Inside, he was screaming, panicking, searching for an answer. He didn’t want to hurt Ford when he clearly wasn’t lucid. His brain raced, trying to think of a fast, easy solution. He had been in more slippery messes. He could handle this. _He could handle this._

He tried shifting his weight, putting space between him and his brother’s delirium, but Ford simply pulled him back and smashed him into the wall with force. Stan got the wind knocked out of him, losing a bit more precious oxygen in the process. He gasped in a breath before his twin’s strong hands cut off his air supply once again. Ford muttered under his breath, all of it absolute nonsense to Stan. He had no clue what it was, or if it was even a language. Ford’s next words were rushed, jumbled, incoherent.

“Been here 20 years now… you think I can’t count the days properly? _WHOO PH BRXU VHFUHWV, GHPRQ!_ Think your tricks can distract me? He’s on the other side you know… _He’s not dead yet…!!”_ Ford stared through Stan’s face, eyes wide, terrified, enraged. His body shook from the effort. Stan tried to swallow, feeling the moisture pinch at his eyes. He gasped and coughed, trying to form words.

“Ford…hey.. whose…whose  gnocchi could knock your.. socks off?”

It was an insane question, a _delusional_ question, something no human in their right mind would ask in such a dire situation, but for a whole five seconds, Ford _stalled._ Stan looked down, seeing a light hiding behind the haze of his brother’s eyes. It was so far away, but it was there. Ford’s grip never loosened as he replied from other side.

 _“Capelli’s.”_ he answered the inquiry as if he was still asleep and he looked down at the bed, muttering out strings of letters and numbers, combinations that meant nothing to Stan and never would. Ford’s grip never loosened, his weight still keeping Stan pinned to the wall. The machinery cut into Stan’s back, the pain lacing up and down his spine. He licked his lips; _Okay,_ he thought, _now we’re getting somewhere. Baby steps._

“Right,” he wheezed out. “We used to eat there as kids.” Ford’s grip tightened, air cut off again and he coughed.

“How do you know this?” he asked quietly, dangerously. He still wasn’t looking at Stan. Sweat dripped down his temple, tickling his skin when it got caught in his stubble. _It’s a minefield,_ he told himself. _But you can find the way through to him._

“Remember–” he tried to swallow. “what I confessed to you there? I never told anyone else. Never in all my years. Not even Pops. Just you, Sixer.” The nickname made Stanford visibly shiver, and he drew a ragged breath.  He repeated the word a few times under his breath, as if it was the most tender prayer. He didn’t move for a whole ten seconds, outside of his breathing and his mumbling. Stan’s heart beat out a deafening rhythm in his eardrums.

“Ford,” he said, voice thick with emotion. Ford looked up at the sound of his name, his eyes searching him wildly.

_He’s still in there._

“Ford, come on,” he said gently. “Come back to me.” He reached out and placed a hand on his twin’s cheek. Ford inhaled sharply at the touch, eyes locking on his brother’s face. His hands let go of Stanley’s neck, horrible realization spreading over his features. Stan breathed deep, coughing on how sweet the air tastes on the back of his throat.

 _“St-Stanley?”_ Stan closed his eyes and let his head fall back. _There he is._ He pulled his brother close, wrapping his arms around him protectively. Ford gripped to Stan as if he was a lifeline, body shaking with barely contains sobs. Stan lay his head on top of his brother’s, letting his tears fall into his hair.

“Yeah, it’s me, Stanford. _It’s me._ I’m here. I’m not - _Jesus Christ,_ Ford, even if it kills me- _I’m not going anywhere.”  
_


	5. Old Man and the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE! This is where the more-than-implied Stancest starts! Nothing actually happens, per se, but it is a small flashback that can't really be implied any other way. To those still reading, cheers!

**Backupsmore University, 1971**

Stanford sat in the waiting room, magazine open in lap but his brain barely registering the pages he was staring at. His leg shook, the only outward sign of his barely-contained impatience and unease. Head in hand, he flicked through advertisements and articles on the Vietnam war and Apollo 15. He tossed it aside on the end table next to him and grabbed the next closest interesting thing he could distract himself with. Spotting a familiar yellow-bordered magazine, he buried his nose in articles about cloud-forest gorillas and the emerging power of nuclear energy.

Next to him, his roommate sat calmly, so relaxed in his chair that he could have been dozing. He was a young man like himself, but much more into the fashion of the times than Ford ever was. The gaudy, clashing colors, rose-colored glasses, and long hair was not a look Ford could _ever_ pull off and not one he really _wanted_ to pull off either. But it fit Fiddleford McGucket; stringy, smart, and incredibly laid back, he was just sort of weird all the way around. He was more into engineering and electronics than Ford was, but at least they both shared a love for new discoveries. Ford secretly relished having someone to so enthusiastically share his interests. Unlike…

Ford felt a pit of guilt sink into his stomach and took a shuddering breath. This seemed to stir Fiddleford, who opened an eye to look at him.

“Hey, relax, my man. It’s just the school psychologist. It’s nuthin’ to be nervous about.” Ford only glanced at him before keeping his eyes glued to the book.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t still feel bad about waking you up, or freaking you out, or-” Fiddles put a hand on his shoulder and smiled reassuringly.

“Everyone has their beef with the world, I reckon. Maybe this is just the world telling ya that you need to take it by the horns and grapple with it.”

“Maybe, but-” Ford was interrupted by the opening of a door on the other side of the room.He heard his name being called and felt like he had been suddenly doused with a bucket of ice water. He glanced hopelessly at Fiddleford, looking for a sign. The man just patted his shoulder and kept on smiling.

“You’ll be fine, my friend,” he said simply. Ford took a deep breath and stood up, walking over to the nurse. She smiled encouragingly and said some sweet words, none of which he registered or remembered. His eyes burned looking at the calming yellow of the walls and he shoved his hands in his pockets, following the nurse down the hall. She ushered him into a small room and closed the door behind him.

For a moment, he stood there awkwardly, taking in the place. It was a comfortable space - logically,  as it should be. Warm, earthy colors were used to decorate the place and small distracting knick-knacks decorated the bookshelves and table. There was a plush recliner in one corner, as well as a chair in front of it. At the desk near the window sat a woman in her 30s; she was sitting with a book in her hands and hadn’t said anything to him at all yet. Ford watched her read and felt his awkwardness grow. Should he say something? He rubbed the back of his head, his voice small and pathetic. “Um…”

She looked up and smiled warmly at him. “Oh, sorry, I was really engrossed in this chapter. Please, feel free to take a seat.” She went back to her book, motioning to the large plush chair. Stanford rubbed his arm and sat down, looking around. He grabbed a puzzle toy off the shelf next to him and played with it absently, trying to figure it out. It was a wooden puzzle; find the hidden lever, open the box, win the prize. It captured his frazzled, sleep-deprived brain in such a way that it took him a minute to realize that the doctor had moved to the chair opposite him. He jumped; and clutched at the toy before putting it back.

“Sorry I didn’t-”

“No no, you’re fine. You can keep trying to figure it out if you want, that’s what it’s there for.” She held out a hand. “My name is Melissa Monroe. I’m gathering you must be Stanford Pines.” He took her hand and shook it politely. Now that she was away from the desk, he could get a better look at her. She wore small, neat glasses and kept her long dark hair tied back up off her slight shoulders in a loose bun. She wore a blazer and vest, and a short skirt. Clean, straight, professional. In her lap lay the book she had been reading and he looked at it quizzically. She looked down at it and held it up.

“ _The Old Man and the Sea_ by Earnest Hemingway. An old favorite of mine; I think I first read it in high school.” She held it out to him and he took it, looking over the cover. “Have you read it yet?” Ford shook his head.

“No, I haven’t. What’s it about, besides the obvious?”

“A man who has a string of bad luck, and his fight against it.”

“Sounds vague.”

“I don’t want to spoil the story,” she said smiling. He felt his curiosity grow, looking the book over before handing it back. She took it kindly and put it on the desk, within plain sight. “So, I take it this is the first time you’ve been in a psychologist’s office, Stanford.”

“Please, it’s just Ford,” he said. “And yeah, it’s the first time. I don’t really know what I’m doing here, honestly.” She pulled a clipboard from the desk and took a note. He glanced at her scribble and then back up at her face.

“‘Ford,’” she repeated. “Sounds good. And since this is your first time here, I’ll give you the quick run down of how this works.” He looked at her, giving her his full attention. She adjusted her glasses and continued.

“Ford, I’m in the business of keeping secrets and helping people who confide in me about those secrets. I am bound to never tell a soul what you tell me. I can guarantee that anything we talk about here isn’t the worst I’ve heard; I work on a college campus and I hear a lot of stories. I can’t judge you. It’s against everything that I am; I’m here to help you, not harm you on your road to recovery.”

“I don’t need to recover. I’m fine.”

“Your roommate seems to think differently. If the issue is worrying him, we should at least talk about it for his sake.”

Ford rubbed his arm. “I’m just having some bad dreams is all.”

“Can you tell me about those dreams?”

“What would be the point? Dreams are just my brain trying to file away the day’s information. Sometimes information crosses in the transfer and causes images to appear while I’m sleeping. It’s nothing to really discuss.”

“You take a very scientific approach to this.”

“Science can make sense of the things I don’t understand, so I tend to trust it more than anything else in the world.”

“That’s certainly one way of looking at things. I’m sure then, you also know that dreams can be a sign of one’s own emotional and mental well-being.” When Ford didn’t respond, she continued, “Dreams aren’t symbolic Ford, but they can mean something; stress levels, hormone fluctuations, emotional turmoil, dealing with trauma. Now, you’re a freshman, so it’s understandable that maybe you’re stressed because you just started college and that’s an adjustment.”

Ford shifted in his seat. “Yeah, I guess. It’s a big change. I’m from Jersey, so being so far away is certainly different. I miss…I miss the beach. I miss people there.”

“Anyone in particular?” Ford looked at his lap where his hands were resting. He counted the fingers there, thinking about what she said. _I am bound to never tell a soul what you tell me._

“I uh… my brother. Just my brother. I don’t know where he is though. He’s-he’s probably not in Jersey anymore.” He didn’t look at her but he could hear the pen scribbling against the clipboard.

“What kind of relationship did you and your brother have?”

He closed his eyes.

_They were on the boat, watching the fireworks show. They were alone but together; they had snuck off from the party with a few beers, laughing about their ultimate thievery. The scent of the sea was sharp on his brother’s skin; he tasted of salt and smoke and delicious sin. Somewhere in his brain he told himself it was just an experiment, that it all meant nothing; the other part laughed at his ridiculous delusion as he and his twin tangled themselves in the dark._

“I…um, we were close, but there was a falling out.” He wiped a lingering bit of moisture off his nose. He didn’t remember starting to cry. “I haven’t spoken to him in almost 6 months.”

“Have you talked to anyone about it?” Ford shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t really want to look at Dr. Monroe’s sweet face, not when he was finding his mind wandering to heated places it didn’t need to go.

“Nobody knows I have a brother. I don’t want them to know. I’d rather them not know.”

“But you told me.”

“Because you’re obligated by trade to not tell anyone.”

“Well, it’s a good start at least.” She set her clipboard aside and the sound of it settling on the table made him look up. “But we’ve run out of time for today.”

“What about my dreams. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“We can talk about them the next time you come in. We don’t have to cover everything in each session. Sometimes it’s healthier to take it one step at a time.” She got up and walked around her desk. She pulled out a small spiral notebook and gave it to him. “I’d like you to keep a dream journal so we can talk about it next week. If you don’t remember your dreams perfectly, that’s fine.” He took the notepad from her and turned it over in his hands, flipping through the blank pages. He stood up, getting ready to leave.

“Okay well, thank you, I guess, Dr. Monroe.” He held out a hand. Instead of a hand though, she gave him the book she had been reading earlier. He looked down at it, and then raised an eyebrow at her.

“Please, it’s just Melissa,” she said, echoing him. She smiled at him pleasantly. “And I’d like you to read it. You seem like a booky guy, and I think you would like it. Just make sure to return it when you’re done.”

He nodded, tucking the book under his arm. “Thank you. I’ll, uh… see you next week then.”

He then walked to the door and she showed him out. He felt slightly lighter, but that didn’t stop his brain from brewing up confusing memories for the rest of the day.

* * *

**Gravity Falls, 2012**

Ford stood in the shower, eyes closed, feeling the hot water run down his skin. He was still getting used to the feeling of bathing; when you were constantly on the move for 30 years it was hard to come across decent plumbing, and even harder to come across anything other than crude, natural cleaning agents. In Gravity Falls though, hot water was a regular commodity; one that he never thought he would take for granted.

He rubbed his burning eyes, listening to the sound of the water falling around him. He was tired, ridiculously so, but had no want to go back to sleep. He didn’t know how he ever could again. Behind his eyelids thoughts of what had happened just a few hours prior played out in front of him; waking up from a nightmare, seeing himself strangling his brother, almost ending his life…

He pounded the tile of the shower in frustration, the muscles in his jaw working as he took a shuddering, grounding breath. He had been foolish, so damned foolish. He thought maybe just having Stan downstairs with him could actually stop something from like that happening, but instead it was just worse. _Unbearably_ worse. He keeps telling himself that this is the worst it could get, but then he thinks of alternatives; what if Stan had really…? Or it had been one of the kids? He had told Stan they would be safe because he knows all the horrors that go bump in the night. He knows how to handle every nightmare - he spent 30 years learning how - but he didn’t know if he could beat his _own_ nightmares, and he has been trying to accomplish that for far, far longer than any nightmare the portal could have created.

_Can I stop myself if I lose myself? Am I safe around them? Are they safe around me? If push comes to shove, can I make the hard decision? Could Stan make it for me…?_

He felt the warmth leaving the water and decided his shower was long since over. He turned the knob and grabbed a towel, getting out and drying off as fast as possible. He saw himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye but didn’t turn to look. He didn’t want to see the scars he knew were there. He didn’t want to see the sort of monster he had become today.

Quietly he changed, heading out of the bathroom as light was coming over the horizon. He looked out the kitchen window as he made himself a cup of coffee; the world was greying, the mist resting low on the ground. He used to feel nostalgic for the sight; wondering while he was in the portal if all the old forests had been chopped down or if their souls still lingered in the wood, whispering their secrets to anyone who would listen. He had listened for so long; learned so many secrets. These days, he wondered if those secrets had ever been worth it. He pulled his eyes away from those tall giants, grabbing his cup of coffee and heading back out of the kitchen. He paused briefly at the stairs, thinking of the twins sleeping peacefully above him, when he heard a few heavy footsteps upstairs. His stomach flipped; Stan must have come upstairs while he was showering. _Probably for the best_ , he thought sourly. _I wouldn’t want to be around the guy who almost strangled me, either._

On his way through the living room, Ford looked around, taking a swig of his coffee as he did so. The taste was full, fresh, and dark; he had to remember to personally praise Stan for never skimping on the Colombian brew when they next talked. 30 years and the flavor was just as wonderful as before, and his brother had to be commended for his great taste. As he lowered the cup though, a magazine on the floor caught his eye. It was open face down, so Ford could see the front and back covers. _Gold Chains for Old Men_. Ford rolled his eyes and redacted his previous statement about his twin’s sense of quality. He reached down, lifting the magazine and moving to put it in his brother’s recliner.

A book feel out, hidden under the magazine. Ford hesitated before tossing the magazine in the chair and reaching down for the book. It was missing the front cover, and the spine was worn so far he could barely read the name. He flipped his finger to a page, seeing if he could recognize it just by passage alone.

> _“I do not understand these things, he thought. But it is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers.”_

He swallowed hard and knew the words instantly; it was an old book he had kept from college and taken with him to Gravity Falls. His eyes flicked from the magazine to the book in his hands. He knew the magazine was Stan’s, but why was he reading this? He had never shown an interest in the classics, so what was he doing reading them now? Perhaps Stan was getting sentimental in his old age, and his love of the sea.

He looked at the book interestingly, setting his coffee down on the T-Rex skull that served as the table next to Stan’s chair. He scooted the magazine to the space between the cushions and sat down, thumbing through the old pages. The wafting scent of old paper filled his nose and he breathed it in, delighting in the calming aroma. He pulled the book away and ran a thumb down the side, letting the pages flip past. Every now and then, something would catch his eye; as he slowed down he realized there were dog-eared pages and what looked like notes scribbled here and there. His brow furrowed; he may have loved writing journals full of daily notes, but he never defaced actual books. He picked a page and squinted at the notes there. Some lines were simply highlighted; others came with dog ears, numbers, or anecdotes.

> _“I hate a cramp, he thought. It is a treachery of one’s own body.”_ **\- Yeah, I feel that, old age sucks, right?**
> 
> _“No one should be alone in their old age, he thought.”_ **← !!**
> 
> _But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.”_ **– Man I miss the sea. Wonder if the ol’ boat is still afloat?**
> 
> _“But, he thought, I keep them with precision. Only I have no luck anymore. But who knows? Maybe today. Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.”_ **– No wonder Poindexter loves this book so much**

He flipped through page after page, feeling his heart constrict with each new note and highlight. Eventually they stopped, either because Stan hadn’t read those pages yet or hadn’t had anything else to add. He closed it and held it tight in his hands, his eyes watering. For a while he sat there in the silence of the house, hearing nothing but the sound of the owl clock ticking on the wall. His shoulders shook once before he wiped his nose. He thought for a moment before making up his mind, wiping the tired eyes underneath his glasses, and pulling a pen out of his pocket. He breathed a sigh and straightened, finding the last page and letting his pen hover before scrawling out a quick message. He then found the page the book that was open to on the floor, stood up replaced it where he found it, and placed the magazine carefully on top, concealing it perfectly. After he was done, Ford picked his mug bag up, taking a sip and surveying his handiwork; it looked exactly as he found it.

He took a long draught of his coffee and heard the clock chime. It was 7am; time for him to disappear again before the kids woke up. He turned on his heel and moved like a ghost over the carpet into the gift shop. Inputting the code, he opened the door, closed it again, and let himself become just another whisper among the giants surrounding them.


	6. Emotions

**Glass Shard Beach, 1964**

“Stan? Hey… Stan?”  
  
“Hmmm…?”  
  
“Psst, Stanley, wake up!”

“Mmmmpf, no go away.”

“Stanley, please? Come on!”

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut tight, annoyed by the loud whispers above him. He cracked up an eye and saw his brother’s face hanging down from the side of the top bunk. His glasses looked as if they might fall off his head, but his eyes underneath were wide with fright. Seeing his brother’s distress made him more alert, and he sat up, wiping his eye of gritty sleep.

“Ford? What is it? Wh-what _time_ is it?” It was still dark out, the only light outside coming from the street lamp glow. He watched his brother’s head disappear, only to see his feet and body emerge down the side of the bed. Stan swung his legs around to face his brother better. He was standing on the floor now, wringing his hands and looking carefully at his fingers, his eyes shining. The sight was only serving to make Stanley more and more angry. “What happened? Did someone beat you up today and you didn’t tell me? I’ll pulverize them!”

Ford held up his 12 fingers and looked even more distraught. “ _Shhh,_ you don’t want to wake up mom and pops! No no, nobody hurt me Stan! I…I just…”

“Just what?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “What’s wrong?” Ford breathed in and back out, still looking like he was gonna cry.

“Can I… Can I sleep with you in your bunk tonight?” He kept wringing his fingers together. Stan grabbed his brother’s arm and guided him over to the bed.

“Sure bro, but first, you gotta tell me what happened. I’m not gonna sleep with no _pansy_ next to me.” His brother smiled a little bit at that but immediately looked down, rubbing his arm.

“I just had a really bad dream, is all.” He gave his glasses to Stan, and Stan put them on the table next to their bed. “That you and I hated each other, mom and dad died in a car crash, and I lost my fingers and everyone laughed at me for it.” The tears fell on his cheeks as he remembered what happened during his sleep. “At the end, I was all alone and I had to deal with living all by myself, where nobody loved me. I was so scared Stan. I don’t want to lose mom and pops. I don’t want to lose you.” He kept grabbing his hands and Stan watched him as he wiped his eyes with his shirt. His eyes flicked over Ford’s face, trying to figure out what to do. He was never good with emotion, and his brother could be a _fountain_ of them at times.  He chewed his lip, looking around the room.

In the end, he did the only thing he could think of; he grabbed his pillow and playfully smacked his brother in the shoulder. Ford looked stunned; he was clearly _not_ expecting such an attack from Stan after spilling his heart to him. He started to protest, but Stan just put a finger to his lips and grinned. Ford picked up another pillow and chucked it in his brother’s face, causing him to yell and fall over on the bed.  After a few more playful smacks and stifled giggles on the both sides, they plopped down on the lower bunk, breathless but smiling. Ford hugged the pillow he had smacked Stan with close to his chest, color still lingering on his cheeks. As they both gathered their breath, Stan looked over at him; Ford was staring at the dark wood above his head, face set back into his thoughtful sadness. Stan frowned; he _hated_ that face. He wrapped an arm around Ford’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Ford, it’s _just_ a dream. And you know what pops says about dreams.”

“That they are just our brains trying to trick us into giving them more credit than they’re worth.” He smiled at his twin, and Stan grinned back.

“Exactly. Don’t worry about it! You’ll never be alone bro, and if you ever are, you can always call on me. There’s no way I’ll leave you behind.”

“And mom and pops?”

“They’ll live to be old, wrinkly, and cranky, just like grammy and gramps.” Ford laughed and snuggled close.

“So, am I too much of a pansy to sleep in your bunk tonight?” He whispered. Stan pushed him away, faking his grossness.

“Eewwww, well you weren’t before but _NOW.._.” Ford punched his arm, the look on his face saying he knew his brother wouldn’t kick him out. Stan put his hands behind his head and winked at Ford, grinning.

“Just no hogging the blankets.”

“Okay.”

“And no snoring!”

“Hey, you’re the one who snores, not me!”

“And no wetting the-”

Stan got a face full of feathers before he could finish his crude sentence and he laughed himself and his brother back to peaceful sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Gravity Falls, 2012**

Stan grunted under his breath and looked up from his newspaper for what may have been the 78th time that morning. He glanced once more at the vending machine in the gift shop; it did nothing but stare blankly back, the snacks and candies mocking him from behind their pane of plexiglass. The entire door frame had yet to budge all day; he was sure his brother had come upstairs because there was a pot of _goddamn coffee_ made and sitting out in the kitchen when he went down in the morning; it was still warm by the time he got to it. He had picked up that pot and immediately swept the whole of the house, seeing if he was still around. All he had found was a mirror still half-fogged, his magazine where he left it with the book underneath, and a clock that ticked too loudly in the silence.

Finally, he had walked over to the door and punched in the code only to find it didn’t work. He stared at it blankly and tried again, just to be sure. He had _always_ known the code; even when Ford had changed it to stop the kids from coming down unannounced. But now, it beeped at him resolutely and refused to move. Stan tried a few more combinations, just to make sure; he had changed the lock a few times himself over the years when people got too close, but none of his old favorites worked either. He had stared at the buttons for a long while, as if his glower alone would scare it into opening. Instead, nothing happened; he punched it, and a bag of stale muffins fell down to the shoot. He grabbed them, opened the package, and ate them angrily.

Now though, breakfast was long over, he had long since changed, the kids, Soos, and Wendy had long since gone off to work on repairs and _still_ the door sat there, never moving. The sun was starting to fall in the sky and he had read the same article on the town’s TV Station repairing in time for the premiere of the _Ducktective_ season finale for the fifth time before he sighed and put the paper down on the gift shop counter. He crossed his arms, knowing his glare meant nothing but couldn’t stop it anyway. He got up and walked over to the door, pounding a fist against the side.

“Hey you numbskull, get out here! You can’t stay down there forever, you think I don’t know you’re deliberately trying to avoid me and everyone else?” He growled at the door; it was silent in return. After ten seconds of seething, Stan threw his arms up into the air. “Fine! Distance yourself for all I care! It’s not like your family is finally here, waiting for you or anything! It’s not like I’m sitting up here _waiting_ for you so I can deck you a new one for being such an idiot!”

He paced around the gift shop restlessly, fists at his side. What he wouldn’t give to have a punching bag to wail on right about now. He didn’t have anything though, so he just kept bashing the door with his words, though it wouldn’t budge. “So what, are you scared that I will _hate_ you? Are you worried that I can’t face you now? That after all this time, I’m never going to want to talk to my _own brother_ again just because he tried to choke me out? Clearly you don’t know the kind of shit I went through in my life, before and after I took this shack of a house under my wings. Clearly _you_ don’t know how much I CARE and that sort of feeling trumps any kind of accidental, I dunno, possession situations where you lose yourself.” He points accusingly at the door, but it has no retaliation. A light flickers on the inside of the box and he twitches, stepping back, but it was just a faulty florescent. He waits another second, but when nothing happens he steps away, hands thrust into his pockets, walking to the far end of the gift shop. He stares out the door, watching Dipper and Mabel outside. They had long since abandoned their work and they were fighting each other with water guns; Soos and Dipper against Wendy and Mabel. He could hear their muffled laughter through the door and a lump formed in his throat.

“30 years. 30 years I took _your_ name, took _your_ house, signed _your_ taxes, worked off _your_ mortgage, paid _your_ bills, worked on _your_ portal to bring _you_ back and you think I’m going to just… give up after all that? You really think I’m going to bring you back and then let you get away from me? _Again?_ They say ‘third time’s the charm’ but… “ he sighed, the sound heavy on his ears. “I guess I lost my charm a lifetime ago.”

“That’s assuming you had any charm in the first place.”

Stan whirled around; his brother was standing in the basement door frame, a bundle of sleeping bag under his arm. His eyes looked tired and sad; their eyes met but Ford couldn’t hold it under Stan’s angry glare. He dropped the sleeper on the gift shop floor as Stan stomped over to him. Before Stan could stop himself he threw a punch that smashed clean into his brother’s jaw. Ford’s head turned and he staggered against the force, but when he came back there was no hate in his eyes as he rubbed his face. “I guess I deserved that one,” he mumbled, but Stan wasn’t done yet. He grabbed his coat and pulled him close, shaking him lightly.

_“YOU ARE SUCH AN IDIOT!”_

Ford blinked and stared at Stan, who looked furious beyond belief. Stan’s hands shook as they clutched the heavy fabric of the coat and he stared at Ford, huffing out each breath. Ford said nothing and stared at the floor. He motioned to the sleeping bag with a hand.

“Experiment's over. I brought this up for you so you didn’t need to trouble yourself with coming down.” Stan let go of his brother’s coat, shoving him back a few inches. Ford didn’t fight him; he just stood there and watched Stan. “I’ll deal with whatever is wrong on my own terms. I never meant to get you hurt; you didn’t sign up for that. I’m just going to-”

He was cut off by another swing from Stan. This time Ford’s honed reflexes kicked into gear and his head jerked back as Stan’s fist came dangerously close to landing another blow. His eyes now met Stan’s; they were still blazing with a fiery anger that was so strong, Ford’s impassive face started to cross into the “worried” zone. In the way only a battle-ready body could, Ford prepared himself, grabbing Stan’s arm and pushing against him. Stan’s eyes watered; he was feeling a huge rush of emotions and he had no idea what to do with them. He struggled against his brother’s strength until he gave out a pained growl and kicked the vending machine door. It swung open wide, the light inside flickering. Stan yanked himself from Ford’s grasp and the two men stepped back from each other, gaining distance.

“Stanley, I get it. I hurt you, and you want to get back at me for it, _I get it,_ so if it’s a fight you want-”

“For the love of Christ, Ford, I don’t want a fight, _I want my brother back!”_ Stanley stood there shaking with barely contained rage and Ford stared at him. A flicker of guilt flashed across his face but it was gone in an instant. Ford held his hands up; Stan’s remained balled into fists.

“Stan, I don’t want to hurt you-”

“Ford, _shut it_ , alright? I know what you’re doing, don’t tell me I don’t know what the _FUCK_ you are doing right now.” The heavy curse leaving Stan’s lips makes Ford shut his tight. “How _dare_ you try and leave me out of the equation again and leave me behind _again_ while you go off and risk your own ass for _no reason at all!”_

“Stan I’m not-”

 _“_ Don’t give me that bullshit and stop being so stubborn! _YOU AREN’T ALONE ANYMORE, STANFORD!”_  Ford stared at his brother in shock. His eyes then drifted slightly to the left and Stan watched his gaze move. He swallowed hard, a sheet of ice plunging down on him instantly. He glanced over his shoulder to see the kids standing there in the gift shop doorway, Soos and Wendy in tow. Dipper and Mabel both stared at them, wide eyed; Mabel’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of their fight and Wendy put a hand on her shoulder, her face emotionless. Stan straightened and let his anger out in a breath; he could never be _that_ mad in front of the kids knowingly. He watched Mabel’s eyes flick from Stanford behind him to Stan’s face; more than anything, it crushed him under his own guilt and he felt his heart constrict.

“Sorry kids, your ol’ fart grunkles were just having an argument,” Stan stiffened as he heard Ford answer the kids but he didn’t say anything.

 _“Why?”_ Mabel’s voice cracked and Stan’s hands shook so hard he shoved them deep into his pockets. He could barely hold it together as she looked to him, searching for an answer. Soos and Wendy exchanged a glance and knew this situation was going to go downhill quickly.

“Because Ford seems to think he can’t lean on his FAMILY when it comes to his big scary adventures anymore. Not even on the brother who saved him and brought him home.” Stan’s eyes stung as he dragged them forcefully away from the kids to his brother. Ford’s face looked impassive but Stan knew his brother too well; he couldn’t be fooled. There was a wealth of conflicting emotions hidden behind his eyes, barely spreading onto his face. Stan knew them though; fear, doubt, insecurity, guilt, worry, pain. 30 years but he knew all his hidden stories, all the subtle details. Nothing was different; he still knew his twin inside out as if they hadn’t been torn asunder 30 years ago.

He set his jaw and looked away from his brother. He slouched out of the gift shop and he thought he heard a small “Stan wait-” before the door swung shut on Ford’s sentence. The red sky outside seemed to mirror his mood as he stalked through the darkening house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he closed the door, removed his coat, grabbed his gloves, and started punching the bag hanging in the corner until the sand ran down to the floor like tears. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, exhaustion and sweat hiding the water running from his eyes.

He was never good with emotions… But _hell_ if he wasn’t a breaking dam of them sometimes.


	7. The Power of Mabel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More implied Stancest in this chapter. Not sure what else to say but if you're reading and don't want that, be aware it's going to continue as we go on. For those reading for that, well strap in because it's only gonna get more implicit from here~.

**Backupsmore University, 1971**

Stanford Pines fidgeted in his chair, leg jiggling uncomfortably while Melissa Monroe sat calmly across from him, looking over the first few pages of his dream journal. It had been a week since they last talked but, true to his word, Ford had returned for a second visit with the school psychologist. In that time, he had found that his dreams hadn’t exactly _improved_ , and he was still keeping his roommate up at night. Luckily, he had also found that walking to the psychologist’s office didn’t take long and he didn’t need to trouble Fiddleford with driving him every week to his appointments. Ford waited impatiently for Melissa to comment on what he had written down, self-consciously twiddling his fingers together.

After what felt like the length of their whole hour session, she looked up at him and adjusted her glasses. “So,” she started. “What do you make of these.” He blinked in surprise.

“What? Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”

“Well, it helps if I know what you think first.” Ford’s eyes darted around. He didn’t really share his dreams with anyone. He had only ever shared them with his family, and after that, only his brother. He shrugged.

“I-uh, I don’t know. They seem to have an underlying theme of my brother dying, or getting hurt. Or me being alone. Or my fingers being gone. It’s a recurring theme I’ve had since I was young.”

“You mentioned you had a falling out with your brother. Do you think that has to do with your nightmares of him dying?”

“Maybe? I was never really able to make up to him. He… he left abruptly, and angrily, and I never had a chance to call or contact him. I didn’t know how.”

“So you fear never seeing him and making up to him.”

“Yeah. I’d like to, some day. But at the same time, I don’t think I’m ready to. It might hurt too much.”

“Sometimes it hurts because we care about those people deeply. We don’t want to hurt them, and we don’t want to hurt ourselves. So we avoid the issue altogether.”

“Are you saying that I should go out and find my brother and fix this situation?”

“Well, that would be pretty hard to do, wouldn’t it? You said he left and you have no way of contacting him. If I also remember correctly, he might not even still be in your home state. He could be literally _anywhere._ ”

Ford looked at his hands; he felt the despair grow in his stomach. How badly did he want to make it up with Stanley, anyway? He felt the heat grow in his stomach when he thought of the last year and a half and the roller coaster they had unwittingly set themselves on. It was such a bittersweet feeling; hating and loving his brother so strongly all at the same time.

“What can I do though? I don’t know if I hate him or lo-” His throat caught and cracked on the word. He took in a shuddered breath and continued. “I don’t know if I care about him or hate him more. I don’t know if I could ever face him again.”

“Well, let’s try this. Pretend I’m your brother.”

Ford started at that. “What?” Melissa waved her hand and smiled kindly.

“We can’t have your brother here, but you clearly haven’t been able to process what happened or how you feel about the whole situation. You need to work through it somehow. So I will act as a stand-in for your brother. Pretend I’m him. What would you say to me.”

Ford’s mind blanked. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and he stared at her like he was a deer caught in the headlights.

“I-uh…”

Melissa relaxed in her chair and said patiently, “Don’t worry about it, everyone has a weird time with this exercise at first. Take your time. It may also help if you closed your eyes, and imagined him here in my chair instead.”

Ford shifted awkwardly but did as she asked. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Stanley sitting there, across the room from him. He knew he would be grumpy; his arms crossed over his chest, his foot resting on his other leg’s knee. He would probably glance at Ford and then huff before looking away, fingers drumming on his arm.

Ford swallowed hard as he focused on the details, convincing himself that Stanley was there with him. He remembered so much still; the bulk of his arms, the little patchwork scars from when they were rough as kids or when he got sliced accidentally in the boxing ring. He wondered if his acne had cleared yet, or if his skin was still patchy and imperfect. He let his mind wander, tried to think of all the emotions he had surrounding his brother when he left. When everything had gone to hell. He could feel the swirl of words forming in his mind, all the different sentences that he could say in rage, in anger, in disappointment. His teeth ground together, fighting on what would be most fitting curse to yell at the smug, annoyed face across from him in his mind.

_“I’m sorry.”_

The words left him unbidden, cracked and dry and full of way too much telling emotion. His shoulders shuddered and put a hand to his face, wishing he had said anything, _anything_ but those words. But there they hung, and hearing them in his own voice made them that much more pungent. The water stung behind his eyelids.

“I’m sorry for everything. I wish it had never come to what it did. I don’t-I don’t know how to ever make it up to you, Stanley. I never wanted to hurt you. I-… _god_ I’m so sorry…”

He choked on the words and found he couldn’t continue. Instead he just put his face in his hands, trying so hard to swallow down the sobs that wracked his body. The Stanley in his mind just stared at him, wordlessly, as if he didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, but eventually the imaginary Stan stood up, going to Ford and putting a hand on his shoulder. He started when he actually _felt_ a hand there, but this one was different from Stan’s - smaller, lighter, softer. He looked up and felt his face heat with embarrassment; Melissa was there, a box of tissues in hand. She gave him a small smile and patted his shoulder lightly.

“It’s okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this is progress. It hurts a lot, but that’s the nature of these things. It’s darkest before the dawn, and all that.” She offered him the tissues and he blinked, taking them and wiping his eyes and face. He focused on cleaning his glasses, not wanting to look at her.

“Sorry. I guess I got carried away.”

“Like I said before; not the worst I’ve seen. And something tells me you needed it; am I wrong?”

Ford looked away, but shook his head. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Good. Now, I know I gave you a book last time, but this time, I’m giving you the tissues. See that they’re put to good use, will you?”

He huffed out a small laugh at that and looked at the box questionably. “Yeah, I’ll try, I suppose.”

“Good.” She handed back the dream diary and he took it from her. “I hope to see some nicer stories in there next time. Ones that aren’t so depressing.”

“I’ll try my best, Melissa.” She beamed at that.

“Great. Now, will I see you next week?” He nodded, trying to wipe the redness off his face. He would hate to look like a crying mess before leaving her office.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll be here.”

 

* * *

 

**Gravity Falls, 2012**

Ford stood in the gift shop, the blood pounding in his ears. Outwardly he did his best to appear composed, calm, but inside he was a tempest. The look on Stan’s face, the sound of his words in his ears… they stuck around long after they were said and seen. His eyes darted from the doorway where his brother abruptly exited to the group on the other end of room. He feels the sweat roll down his face and an odd sense of claustrophobia descend on him. He isn’t sure what the kids heard but he knows it couldn’t be anything good from the look on the twins’ face; Dipper’s eyes were as wide as saucers in shock, while Mabel looked as if she was staring at the ghost of a long lost pet. He shifted and rubbed the back of his neck, vaguely aware of how awkward and exposed he was. The silence hung over everything, and nobody appeared willing to shatter it.

“So, uh… should we just head out and forget that happened, or…?” Soos was the first to speak up, his voice holding an innocence that knew the larger underlying truth. Ford’s eyes flicked tiredly to the man and held his hands up in a form of peace offering.

“It’s fine, really. I’m just sorry you all had to see Stan like that. We’ve been having a, uh…a _difficult_ time connecting since I got back.” Soos and Wendy exchanged a glance. Ford knew that look. “Look, It’s late; if you guys would like to head home, that’s fine by me. I’m sure your boss isn’t going to stop you.”

“Thanks, uhh… _other_ Mr. Pines.” Ford winced at the honorific Wendy used. He heard it and could only think of his father and that never brought up good memories. Wendy pulled out her phone and checked the time; her entire posture went from stiff and straight to an exaggerated crumple. “ _Uggghhh_ I have to go anyway. Dad will start wondering where I am if I don’t get back by 8pm from work, and I promised the gang we would hang.” Wendy chanced a glance at Soos, elbowing him in the arm when he didn’t get the hint.

“Oh, yeah, me too! I got to help my grandma with the dishes tonight. So, I’ll just… let myself out.” Soos gave the twins a pat on the head. Under his breath he whispered “Dudes, it will be okay. _Totally_ seen Mr. Pines angrier than this. He’ll chill out.” He gave them a quick squeeze which garnered a smile out of both Mabel and Dipper before scooting out the door with Wendy.

They left and Ford sighed out what felt like a hundred years worth of air out of his lungs. With the two employees gone, he was painfully aware of the kids in the room with him, both of them awkwardly eyeing each other. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to think everything through. Shoving a hand in his coat pocket, he closed the gap between them, opening his mouth to try and explain himself and his brother. He looked between them, but the words wouldn’t form the way he wanted them to.

“Kids, I’m-”

“It’s okay,” Dipper interrupted, not rudely. Ford looked at him and he just shrugged, blushing a little. “I mean, siblings, right? What can you do.” Ford smiled.

“I suppose. My brother is even more hard-headed than I remember sometimes. He doesn’t understand when I’m just trying to protect him.”

“Protect him from what?” Mabel’s voice was so small and uncharacteristically sad that he felt his heart constrict painfully in his stomach. He met her eyes but had to look away; there was an ocean of pain hidden behind those dark brown eyes and he couldn’t bear to see it. Her words struck him deep.

“I… I don’t know if I can go into detail on that, but it’s everything I’m wrapped up in. It’s not something I want him hurt over.” He saw Dipper glance at Mabel, rubbing the back of his head. He continued hastily “I’m sure it’s something you guys understand. I mean… siblings, right?” He shrugged, doing his best to try and keep it light. He was only slightly surprised when Dipper nodded.

“Yeah, I can understand that.” Dipper put a hand on Mabel’s shoulder but Mabel wouldn’t meet his eye. It was so unsettling; Ford had only known the girl for a few days but to see her so quiet and impassive was getting to him. It grated against his skin and caused him to itch with a kind of worry he only got when he feared for the twin’s safety. He crouched down and got down to eye level with them, holding his hands out.

“Look, it’s been a long day- for everyone. Knowing Stan, he’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Just be extra nice to him tomorrow, okay?” They both looked up at him and exchanged the tiniest of nods. A lump formed in the back of his throat and he gave them a little smile. “Good. Now, get yourselves upstairs and into bed. No sense worrying about this right now. It won’t help anybody, least of all yourselves.” He tried to meet Mabel’s eye but she just looked down at her feet.

“Okay, Great Uncle Ford,” They both said, and Dipper pulled his sister’s arm along. She obligingly went along with her brother, but not without giving Ford a long, searching look before heading out the gift shop and up to bed.

With the twins gone, the gift shop felt more closed in than ever before. The walls, the knick knacks, the stifling atmosphere of the Oregon evening - all of it swept towards him like a terrible darkness. He breathed in and out, steadying himself. He ran his hands over his face and was surprised to find them shaking. He closed his eyes, Stan’s words running on repeat through his mind.

_“I just want my brother back!”_

_“You aren’t alone anymore Stanford!”_

He breathed out a laugh, not willing to believe what Stanley had told him. How could he be the brother he wanted? _How?_ That died 30 years ago, at least. There was no way he could even hope to reclaim all of that again. Things were so different now. They were different men; different people. He had seen so much, traveled so far in the portal that when he looked in the mirror he barely recognized himself. And then there was Stanley, a man who had taken his house, his name, his work…Did he even _want_ to open up to him again? Could he even really open up to him again?

He growled under his breath and rubbed his face as he walked over to the basement door. It was still wide open from when Stan had kicked it; he turned off the gift shop lights and went down to his makeshift lair. As he walked though, he found he couldn’t hang onto the anger he tried to cling onto so tightly for Stan. It was like he was trying to justify the anger he felt from time to time; he talked himself into it just to revel in the negativity every now and then. It reminded him to keep his distance.

But then there were just as many times where he broke. He had tried to get Stan to sleep in the basement with him; he grimaced at how well _that_ had worked. He _wanted_ to reconnect with Stan, he admitted to himself. And if the words and notes he had seen in the book this morning were any indication, Stan wanted to as well. They were both just so emotionally stunted after 40 years without a real, decent conversation that to achieve any connection… it just seemed _impossible._

The elevator dinged, sliding open to the 3rd floor of the basement and he stepped out only to stiffen about five steps in. A small figure with long hair, wet eyes, and a puffy sleeping bag sat on his bed, waiting for him. Those shining orbs looked up and met his gaze and Ford felt the guilt sitting in his chest deepen.

“Mabel? What- _How-_ ” he cleared his voice of his dumbfoundedness. Instead, he tried for a stern, more parental tone. “You should be upstairs in bed, young lady.”

“The door was wide open. I snuck down. Dipper knows, but he went to bed. He knows I’m better that this stuff than he is.”

“‘This stuff?’” He quoted lightheartedly, walking over to the mattress and sitting down. Mabel looked down, feet intertwined. She hugged the sleeping bag close and sighed.

“Feelings. Relationship stuff, you know. Dipper is pretty clueless when it comes to those things. He didn’t even know Wendy was aware of his crush on him for a whole MONTH before she finally told him outright.”

“Dipper had a crush on Wendy?” Ford inquired, prompting an exasperated sigh and eye roll from Mabel.

“Jeez, you’re _both_ hopeless, aren’t you?” Ford grinned sheepishly.

“What can I say; I was never very good with girls. Even worse when it came to romance.” He saw the look on Mabel’s face and wiped the smile off of his as best he could. “But… I’m guessing you’re not down here to talk about _romantic_ relationships, huh.” Mabel looked away. She didn’t say anything right away; instead she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Ford. He took it politely but he felt his throat constrict as he looked at the image.

It was a drawing of him and his twin, grumpily holding hands. It was a simple, childlike drawing that was expertly crafted in crayon and colored pencil. Above them was a heart with the words “Family” scrawled on the top. He swallowed a lump and looked at her.

“It’s a very good drawing,” He said simply. She kicked her feet, head resting on the sleeping bag in her arms.

“I want to send it to mom and dad. I want them to know that we got a long lost family member back but I don’t want them to think you guys _hate_ each other. A part of me knows that you don’t but… it’s always so hard when you guys are fighting and stuff.” Ford put the drawing down gently, making sure not to crumple it.

“Mabel, I didn’t - we don’t _mean_ to fight. And I don’t hate Stan, he’s just difficult to deal with sometimes, that much hasn’t changed in 30 years. But you have to know, the last times we talked… they weren’t pleasant chats. It doesn’t help that I don’t think that I was worth him going through the trouble of opening the portal again. I think that was too big a risk to take.”

“Maybe not to him.” She looked at him, and he looked at her, blinking. She shrugged. “Grunkle Stan has always done whatever it takes to keep us safe. He loves us, no matter what. I never once doubted that. I always trusted he loved us, no matter _who_ he was. He’d do anything for us… and I think he would do anything for you, too. Despite the risk. I mean, he punched a pterodactyl in the face just to save my pig. He sang karaoke with us to kill zombies. He risked the universe for you. If he tried that hard, I have to trust him that it was worth it. That _you_ were worth it.”

Ford looked away, hands in his lap. “I was trying to find a different way home. I know he saved me, I appreciate that but-”

“Not to be mean Grunkle Ford, but you got a _weird way_ of showing him that appreciation.” He looked at her and her face was as hard as stone. He couldn’t believe how perceptive this girl was. He looked away, her eyes too accusing for him to feel comfortable.

“But what if I hurt him, Mabel? What if he gets hurt _because_ of me?” He could hear the desperation slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it.  “What if _you or your brothe_ r get hurt because of me? I can’t risk that, it’s not worth-”  

“Wait wait _wait_. This guy works 30 years of his butt off for you and you’re scared of him getting hurt over you? Are you _serious?”_  She was glaring at him, angry tears in her eyes, and he _wilted_ at the sight of it. How could a 12-year-old girl have such a power over his emotions? “You both are impossible! He wants you in his life Grunkle Ford, but he’s only going to get more upset and more desperate if you don’t let him in!”

A weird feeling he thought was dead long ago grew in his gut. He swallowed and stared at Mabel, trying to digest her words. Stan _wanted_ him in his life? And would just get _more upset and desperate_ if he wasn’t? Just _how_ perceptive was this girl? Wanting him back in this dimension was one thing, sure. Stan clearly wanted that and he had achieved his goal; here Ford was, mission accomplished. But after everything that had happened between them, why… why the _hell_ would Stan still want him around? Their last few true talks were hardly close to bonding material. He could have sworn that…

He was getting lost in his thoughts again when he realized that Mabel was still staring at him, her eyes accusing, seeing everything going on behind his. He tried to open his mouth to feebly defend his actions one more time but Mabel cut him off before he could even speak.

“No! No more excuses, Grunkle Ford! None! Grunkle Stan is right; you’re not alone anymore, you have Stan and Dipper and Me and we all live under the same roof. We shouldn’t spend the rest of the summer _hating_ each other, so promise me that you’ll talk to him.”

“But-”

“No buts!” She said sternly, pointing at him angrily. He held his hands up, backing off. _“Promise me!”_

There was no way that he could deny her. There was _no_ way; her fiery spirit shone through and he was turning to ash before it. He sighed.

“Okay, okay okay…I’ll… I’ll talk to him.” Mabel grinned and pumped the air with her fists, but Ford cut her celebration off. “ _But_! I need some time to figure out what to say. I need to give Stan some time to calm down as well. Knowing him he… probably won’t want to see much of my face for a while.” At the look at her disappointment he amended himself _again,_ saying  “But I will come up for meals and see everyone every day and I won’t just sequester myself in the basement all the time. Cross my heart.” He crossed his first two fingers over his chest as a show of his solidarity. This seemed to appease the girl because she flung herself around his neck in a tight hug. He stiffened at the touch, but put a hand around her back as well, holding her close.

“Thank you Grunkle Ford. I hate seeing you fight. I never like it when me and Dipper fight and I know things went stupid with you and Grunkle Stan but… there’s still hope right? That you won’t be mad at him forever?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“I came out of that portal when I had lost all hope. 30 years later and I’m here in a place I never thought I’d see again. If anything says that there’s still hope for us, it’s that.”

“Thank you, Grunkle Ford,” she whispered in his ear and his heart fluttered in his chest. She pulled away from the hug and gathered up the sleeping bag in her arms. When she spoke next, her words were dead serious.

“He still loves you, you know. That’s why he tries so hard and gets so mad. I can tell.” Ford stared at her, his heart hammering. He knew what she meant but that didn’t mean his mind didn’t go to other meanings, other consequences of the word she used so lightly. He looked away, his face heating uncomfortably. He banished that thought quickly from his mind; it had been 30 years and there was _no_ way Stan loved him in that sense still.

“I guess he’s just as bad at showing he cares as I am,” he said, with a small laugh. He scratched at his neck and stood up. “Alright young miss, I think it is past time for you to go back up to bed, don’t you?” Mabel puffed out her cheeks but nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, Dipper will be waiting up for me. He’s always up late anyway looking over your journals.” She hopped off the mattress and they walked over to the elevator together. He pushed the button to open it and she walked inside. Before he closed the door, she met his eyes one last time.

“Remember Great Uncle Ford. You _promised.”_ A chill ran down his spine at that. Was he being threatened by his 12-year-old niece? He honestly couldn’t tell. After that though, her expression softened. “Have a good night!”

“You too, Mabel. Thanks for the chat. I think.” He grinned at her and she closed the door, the elevator taking her back upstairs. Once she was gone though, his shoulders slouched and he rubbed his forehead with a hand.

He didn’t know what his mind was more wrapped around; thoughts of Stan and what he said, or thoughts of Mabel and what she had told him about why Stan had said what he said. He knew now that he would have to talk to him sooner or later, but how? How was he possibly going to confront his brother when he barely knew how to anymore without fighting with him?

He shook his head, it was pounding and he was too tired to think it through. He would keep true to his word though; he would spend the next few days thinking it over, giving Stan space, figuring things out. Then, maybe then, they could settle this and bury the hatchet once and for all. 


	8. An Opened Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the beginning of the explicit Stancest. Nothing overly raunchy at all, but it's still noted. From this point forward, consider this a stancest fic in the truest form.

**Road Kill County, Oregon, 1982**

It was raining. The clouds were a dark, solemn grey and the air was wet with the large drops that fell from the sky. It wasn’t a heavy rain but it was just enough that anyone out without an umbrella would come back in feeling dank, clammy, and in desperate need of a hot shower.

Stan Pines was one of those people outside without an umbrella, feeling the wetness sinking all the way down into his bones. He was standing next to a random plot of ground, with a random dug hole, with a random empty casket, listening to a random man in black say a few words about a death that never actually happened. However, that man didn’t need to know that, and so Stan let him prattle on, only half listening to the eulogy being given. He was wearing a white shirt, black tie, and a dark grey coat he had found last minute in his brother’s closet- the closest to ‘dressing up’ he had made himself in almost 12 years. He stood there staring at the 6-foot deep pit, wondering what would happen if he just flung himself inside. Maybe it would give some credibility to everything the man was saying about him. Stan chewed his cheek bitterly as he listened to the list of lies he had written up for this man to recite. He spoke them so professionally, as if he really did know who “Stan Pines” was. There were some things in there about being a good son and brother, about being underappreciated in his time,  about being successful, an entrepreneur, a world traveler. There was a grain of truth in some of them, but he knew none of them was who he really was. Maybe they were all things he _hoped_ to become; successful, traveling, adventuring, a good brother. He swallowed, thinking of the pipe dream he was now working on and if, in the end, it would be worth all the trouble he was putting himself through.

“If anyone else has anything to add, please speak your words now.” Stan looked up at the man who looked back at him. Stan glanced around nervously but nobody else was there. Nobody else had wanted to drive all the way out to Oregon just to be at the funeral for the son everyone hated and nobody wanted. Stan just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head; the priest then closed his book and gave him a curt nod before turning away, shoes squishing in the grass as he walked back down the hill and out of the rainy weather. He left Stanley standing there alone in the rain with just himself and and his thoughts to keep him company. He heaved a sighed and bent down, throwing a clump of wet mud into the hole.

“And no one came to say goodbye to the black sheep. Only his twin brother, and that was just to spit out a simple _‘good riddance’_.” The words left him bitterly, but who he was really bitter with, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he really was bitter at his family for caring so little; he wondered if they had even truly been sad when he had called, posing as Stanford, to tell them what happened. Or maybe he was bitter at himself, for being so useless and desperate, still dependent on his brother after 10 years of trying so hard not to be. Or maybe he was just bitter at Stanford, his last words to Stan cutting deep into him like a knife in the back.

_“You ruined your own life!_

_Stanley, help me! **Do something, Stanley!”**_

Stan pinched his fingers over his eyes, cursing under his breath. It had been more than 6 months since the incident in January and he still didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know if he was doing everything or nothing. He didn’t know if he was moving forward or backward. All he knew is he had to keep trying everyday to get somewhere with that monster in the basement. He had to try _something_ , if just so he didn’t leave it broken on the floor like they had.

His right shoulder itched at the memory and he fought the urge to reach up and scratch it. The skin was healing; somehow he had fought off infection entirely but it was deeper than he thought and had itched like mad after the skin had started repairing itself. There had been nights when he would wake up in tears, trying his hardest not to rip his scar out of his back entirely. Now though, it worked as a painful, persistent reminder of where he was, what he was doing, and why he was doing it. It reminded him that this wasn’t just some terrible, horrible fever dream; he really was stuck in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Oregon trying to get his brother back from somewhere that could literally be the middle of bumfuck outer space.

He kicked a rock at the thought and it plopped down into the mud at the bottom of the open grave. He stared it down, as if looking his own death in the face and watching it beckon back to him. As if he hadn’t had enough moments where he thought he was going to die. As if he hadn’t had enough moments where he thought about ending it all and just disappearing from everyone, being forgotten, body never found… he glanced at the empty casket again and let out a shuddering breath.

“Please tell me I’m not being a hopeless romantic about all this, Ford,” he said to the large box of wood and plastic. It said nothing back to him but then again, he hadn’t expected an answer. He kept prattling on though, as if his brother really could hear him and would eventually respond with his dissenting opinion.

“I’ve been reading a lot of physics lately. Trying to to catch up to you after so many years of not caring about all that nerdy science stuff. I came across this experiment once, something about some guy’s cat. Schrodinger, I think? ” He still spoke to the casket; the casket didn’t speak back. “Anyway, he put this cat in a box, and then put gas in the box. But because the box wasn’t opened, the cat was stuck in a quantum state of being either alive or dead; it was neither until the box was opened and the viewer knew for sure if the cat was really alive or dead.” He frowned and he could feel the fists balling up in his coat pockets.

“I call _bullshit_ on that though. The cat is dead. The cat is _always_ gonna be dead. A cat can’t survive a gas leak. It’s physically impossible. There’s literally nothing that can change the state of the cat. The only thing that changes is the way the human mind _convinces_ itself that it’s still alive. It holds onto hope that the stupid cat will survive the odds and still be alive when the box opens. The in-between state doesn’t exist physically, but mentally. The cat is always dead, we just hope and pray it lives.”

He could feel his eyes growing wet, and a few warm rain drops fell on his cheek. “Some days I’m so hopeful on opening that box, that I’ll actually see what’s inside. Some days I’m terrified of what will fall out. My brain tells me you’re gone, Ford. Gone for good. But my heart refuses to listen. My heart refuses to give up on you. And I can’t…” He puts a hand to his face pinching out the moisture. He coughed and blinked. It was just the rain, he told himself. “I can’t handle it if I think about losing you forever and _those_ were our last words spoken to each other. So I keep trying. Even if all I get back out of that portal is a twin skeleton, I’ll keep trying.”

He huffed out a breath, shoulders shuddering. He ran a hand through his hair; it was sopping and muddy and he had tried to dress nice but he was soaked to the bone and it still couldn’t rinse off the feeling of disgust he carried with him now. He had taken his brother’s name after throwing him in that portal, and made money off of his house and his research, had killed himself to erase the soils of the last 11 years and _still_ he felt dirty every time he told another lie. They came so easy - they always came so, so easy - that they made him sick to his stomach. He had always lied about himself but he _hated_ lying about Stanford. He hated it, despised it, and yet he was too scared and didn’t know what else to do except to keep running the “Murder Hut.”

“If- _when_ I get you back, none of this will matter. It won’t matter that I had to lie about you. About us. It won’t matter. The house can go back to the way it was; the way you like it. It won’t matter that I feel terrible every day right now because when you’re back, we’ll work it out. We’ll work it all out. We’ll talk it all out. I’ll help you. You’ll help me. We’ll be the dynamic duo that we always were. I just… I just gotta get you back. I just gotta get you back so I can tell you how _sorry_ I am. About us; about _everything_. If I can tell you that, then maybe, just maybe, we can get past this mess between us.”

Stanley stared up at the clouds, feeling the rain on his face washing away the tears but not the regret. He huffed out a breath and looked back at the casket one last time. Schrodinger’s Stan lived inside, the box never opened, always either alive or dead. But one day he would know the answer. The casket would be opened, and he would know for sure what happened to his brother. _Everyone_ would know the real truth about Stan Pines, and why he did everything that he did.

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, took a deep drag, and let the smoke flow out of his nose. He then flicked it into the hole, smoke still rising off the end, and watched it smolder there in the wet dirt.

“Happy Independence Day,” He huffed mildly to himself, chewing over the words as they rolled off his tongue. He then walked down the hill, jumped in his car, and drove off without ever looking back.

 

* * *

 

**Gravity Falls, 2012**

Stan wasn’t sure if he was angry or relieved that he saw so little of his brother over the course of the week. He didn’t really know what to say to him, and apparently neither did Ford; perhaps there was just nothing left to say, and so, whenever they crossed paths, their voices were full of curt greetings and gruff nods and not much else. Ford kept to the basement for the most part and it appeared that whatever he was up to down there was keeping him preoccupied; whenever he came up for meals (at Mabel’s behest) his nose was stuck in some book or covered in soot, his eyes sharp despite their tiredness. Stan always glared over his food when he sat at the table - that is, until he met Mabel’s angry eyes on him. At that, he would simply stare down at his potatoes instead, keeping his thoughts to himself.

And that’s how it went up until the incident with the cycloptopus and the board game. At that point though, something strange happened; despite his own annoyance at Ford and his own insistence with the kids to stay away from him, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of _jealousy_ seeing Dipper and Ford bonding over the nerdiest of games in the entire universe - or perhaps even, the _multi_ verse. And on seeing those two bond, he found himself clinging to Mabel and he didn’t think he was imagining it when she seemed to cling right back. After all, the _Ducktective_ season finale was coming out soon and he would be damned if he was going to miss that when it was Mabel’s favorite. He had even dressed up for the occasion. Maybe then that would get Ford’s attention, have him sit down, get them to relax, really talk things out -

He stopped himself and scowled. No, his brother probably _didn’t_ want to talk things out; he was being distant and cryptic and nothing short of a cold shoulder. If he was trying to figure things out, he wasn’t making any moves, and the only one he had was inviting Stan downstairs for a night and then promptly attacking him in his sleep. Of course as soon as Stan thinks about that, he immediately wonders if Ford has been okay since that night, or if he still woke up screaming about monsters and enemies chasing after him in the dark.

The next thing he knows, he’s finding his brother and Dipper overtaking the living room and he’s overreacting, throwing dice, getting Ford and his nephew captured, going on an ‘epic wizard quest’, killing guards, and saving his brother from utter death again. And all he can think is _Goddamnit Ford do not die in a goddamn game not even a week after I bring you back_ until the relief of seeing his brother safe and sound once more washes over him. And then there’s the rough one-armed hug, a rare rush of contact and he feels Ford stiffen from the pressure but when Stan pulls away quickly he sees his brother smiling, not frowning. Stan grins back, resisting the urge to punch Ford in the arm.

All in all, it was an _okay_ day, he allowed himself to admit. He had saved his brother from imminent demise yet again, and they ended up not having a fight. That… that was progress right? Sure, Ford didn’t stick around for the Ducktective finale (claiming it ‘wasn’t his thing’ but he had grinned at their enthusiasm nonetheless), but Stan was feeling lighter than he had in ages. He looked good, he felt good, and best of all, he felt like part of his _whole_ family again. There wasn’t much that topped that, not in a million years.

It was getting late when he finally shooed the twins and Grenda upstairs, telling them to get ready for bed. Mabel and Dipper groaned and Grenda protested loudly, but that didn’t stop them from stealing up the steps, Dipper looking utterly horrified at the thought of Grenda spending a sleepover with him in the attic. At that, Stan rolled his eyes and took a little pity on the kid, offering him his room for the night. Dipper stared at him, stunned by the sudden charity.

“Wha-But Grunkle Stan, you _never_ let me into your room.”

“Yeah well, since the break room has been taken over by Soos, there really isn’t a suitable sleeping area down there. And you hardly need to deal with a girl sleepover after almost having your brain eaten.”  

Dipper rubbed his arm, unsure of this current situation. “But where will _you_ sleep?” Stan hand waved him off and huffed out a gruff reply.

“You think I can’t find some place to sleep in this old house? I’ll be fine kid. Just promise me you won’t touch anything, and the mattress is all yours.”

“Okay Grunkle Stan, I promise.” And for once, Stan actually believed him. He shoved him down the hall just as Grenda started reaching a new decibel in her discussions about dream boys. Dipper gave his Grunkle an appreciative look and then scampered into the bedroom for the night.

Stan watched him go with a smile before heading back downstairs. He undid his tie while he went down; it was a nice touch to his usual suit, but a little stifling for so late at night. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he sighed as he looked at the hole now situated where the door to the back porch should have been. It was just another stinking thing he would have to get fixed before the Shack reopened, or at least before the summer was over. Until then, perhaps he could put a tarp or a net up, at least to keep out the mosquitos before he could get Soos to run into town to grab supplies.

He took a careful step outside and made his way over to the couch. It was a great night; clear and silent. If there was any benefit to living out in the middle of nowhere, it meant great viewing of the night sky. Stan sat down on the far end of the couch, leaning over to one of the coolers he kept outside for occasions just like this one. Opening it up and digging down underneath the Pitt Cola, he found a bottle of beer or two still hidden and out of sight. He took out one of the bottles and popped the lid, enjoying the sharp aroma before taking a swig and relaxing back into the couch. It was far from the best beer he had ever had, but for all intent and purpose, it was good enough. He figured he earned it.

It wasn’t long before he heard a shuffle to his right and he looked to see Stanford leaning against what should have been the door frame. He was studying the hole a bit, perhaps mathematically trying to figure out the best way to fix it up, or maybe he had some invention downstairs to miraculously fix it. Stan rolled his eyes and waited on Ford. When his brother didn’t make a sound, he sighed and motioned to the couch.

“What, are you waiting for an invitation? Sit down, ya nerd.” Ford huffed out a breath and obliged his brother. It was at this point that Stan noticed he had left his coat downstairs, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was about as casual as Stan had seen him, even if his gun remained firmly against his hip. He sat down and lounged on the couch next to Stan, chancing a glance at his brother’s drink.

“Got another one of those?” Stan replied by digging around in the cooler before tossing him a cold one. Ford caught it easily and flipped it around in his hand before removing the cap and taking a drink. He stared at it passively, reading the label.

“Not very strong stuff you got here, Stan.”

“It’s not like I can keep hard liquor in the house with the kids around,” Stan took another drink of his beer as well, looking at his brother. “They have some pretty strong drinks in that sci-fi sideburn dimension of yours?” Ford grinned.

“Well, you could say that. I once downed a drink that could bring a gazorpian to it’s knees.” When Stan stared at him uncomprehending, Ford continued “They’re this warring race of giant ape men who have an extra set of arms instead of ears on their-”

“You know what, I _don’t_ wanna know, Ford,” he said, and Ford laughed, a genuine sound that Stan was still getting used to. It was like a memory long since forgotten that he was painfully being forced to remember. He grinned back, enjoying how relaxed his brother was. He hadn’t seen him this loose in… God, since they were practically _kids._

“So I finally open up to you about what I did on the other side of that portal and you tell me you _don’t_ want to know? What a change of pace.”

“Maybe I just don’t care about warring races from Mars. Besides, whatever happened over there, I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready. ”

“They’re not from _Mars_ , Stanley, they’re from Gazorpazorp -” But Stan just held up a hand to stop him.

“Look, _Poindexter_ , I’m sure they have a fascinating biology and history but seriously, another time. Thinking about arms growing out of heads is giving _me_ a headache.” Ford chuckled again and took a drink, Stan unconsciously mirroring him. They were both quiet for a time, just two men, sitting on a couch, watching the trees and the stars and listening to the crickets in the warm night air. It was a nice, comfortable silence; they used to fall into them all the time as kids when they were just sitting around their room, absorbed in their own projects. Stan swallowed thickly at how _nice_ it all felt. He hadn’t really thought about how long it had been since the last time they had simply sat around, at ease with just the presence of each other. It had clearly been too long and yet they both fell into it without missing a beat. It was if it was the most natural thing in the world; as if they _didn’t_  have a mountain of emotional issues sitting between them that needed sorting out.

“You’ve had a good couple a days,” Stan said, breaking the spell over them. Ford turned to look at him.

“You could say that.”

“How about your nights.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement that demanded an answer. Ford shifted in his seat, trying to get more comfortable.

“Well enough.”

“Not a good enough answer.” Ford set his jaw and fidgeted again.

“It’s fine Stanley I’m… I’m dealing with it. It hasn’t been as bad as the other night, but I’m dealing with it.” Stan grunted at him, the sound clearly showing his displeasure with the response Ford had given him. But he didn’t want to pry, not now. They were actually making progress for the first time in a week and a half, and he wasn’t about to spoil it with a fight. Right now, it wasn’t worth it. Ford caught his drift, but he shifted his gaze away, taking a drink from his bottle. They fell silent again but it was no longer as comfortable as it was before. Stan knew Ford was itching to say something, so he was going to wait this one out. He wasn’t going to break the silence this time; that was all on his twin’s shoulders. He relaxed out some more as he watched his brother tense, leg bouncing in anticipation. It was only a matter of time now.

“Why’d you do it, Stanley?” His voice was soft, but almost cracked under the pressure of the heavy question. Stan blinked at him; it was the _last_ thing he expected his brother to ask.

“You might want to be a little more specific there, Sixer.” Ford groaned and leaned forward, his head resting on his hands.

“You really are going to make me ask it, aren’t you? Okay fine; _Why_ , Stanley? Why did you waste 30 years to get me out of that portal? Why didn’t you just… move on with your life and declare me dead like any sensible person would?”

“Are you seriously asking me this question? It’s because you’re family, because you’re my br-”

“If you use that flimsy excuse in front of me I swear I’ll show you how close I can get this bottle to hitting your head without actually doing so.” Ford’s eyes were hard on Stan now; Stan swallowed a bit of beer, the taste bitter on the back of his throat. “No sensible _brother_ would care enough to waste 30 years on such a long shot. Maybe they would try for a few years, sure, but it doesn’t make sense. _30 years,_ Stanley? I’m not-” he choked on the word, looking away. “ I’m not worth that.”

“They say you’re a genius but you are as dull as _dirt_ sometimes, Stanford,” Stan growled out, hand gripping his bottle. “You really think I would just leave you in there? That I would think you dead? That I would give up on you?” Ford stared at him for a moment, before looking down.

“No, I just didn’t think you _cared_ anymore about what happened to me. And I… I won’t lie, I started to doubt that you would ever pull me out. That you had done it on purpose, that you said ‘good riddance’ and left me to find my own way.  And I was looking for my own way back- another way out. Maybe there could be another tear that I could crawl through, just like all the other weird things in this town. But every dimension I jumped through, every time I thought I found my way home… I just got more lost. I started to lose hope.” His hands turned the bottle in his hands as he tried to find the words. Stan just stared at him; this was the most he had ever heard Ford talk about the time across the portal since he had returned home and his response came out more choked than he would have liked.

“I-I _never_ stopped trying. I never stopped looking for your books. Every night I would pour over the codes, figuring them out, looking for the hiding spots. And I almost _did_ lose hope myself sometimes. I almost killed myself in grief; thinking about what may or may not come out of the portal if I actually got it to work. Sometimes I would have nightmares of just… pulling out a dead, rotting body that used to be my brother. Sometimes you came through and didn’t know who I was. Other times nothing happened at all. Those ones were always the worst, because I would wake up the next day, seeing that portal, seeing how inert it was, how much it _mocked me_ for not being smart enough, not being clever enough to figure it out-”

“But you did. You figured it out.” Stan growled and threw his hands up at Ford’s response

“Yeah, I figured it out, only after the other 2 journals just fell into my lap without me even having to look for them! Dipper had it all summer, Ford. He just _found it_ ; I couldn’t believe it! And then this nasty little kid in town, he apparently _found one too!_ I never did, they just…came to me when I was just about to lose the last of my options. What a trip that was. Everything after that happened so fast…and now here we are.”

“You were still the one to figure it out. That took some guts, Stan.”

“Yeah well, I had to know what was in the box.” Ford blinked at that one.

“What was- Stan is this a weird reference to some movie I don’t understand or-”

 _“Schrodinger’s Cat._ You were my Schrodinger’s Cat. I…I had to know if my heart could beat out my logic. I had to know if you were alive, or if you were dead. My heart never gave up, even when my logic long since did.” Ford was silent for a time, staring at Stan. Stan didn’t look at him but scowled as he brought his lips back up to the bottle. His skin itched under his brother’s gaze.

“You… used a quantum physics thought experiment as inspiration for getting me out of the portal?” Stan looked at Ford; he was sneering and laughing into his hand. Stan growled back at him.

“What, you think that’s funny, Poindexter? You think it’s funny that I had to look up shit that I had to teach myself in order to get you out of that damned machine?” Ford held up his hands, laughing under his breath.

“No, no, Oh my God Stanley, no, if anything I’m… _majorly impressed_ that you even know what that experiment is, but the whole point of it was to talk about the absurdity of how subatomic particles could be in separate states at once and -”

“Yeah, I called bullshit on it a long time ago. The cat’s always dead, I know.”

“And yet you-”

“Yes. Because the state of being was in my head. I had to win out. I had to know if my logic was right. I had to know if the cat- aka you- was dead. My heart always said you were alive and I just…” Stan swirled what was left of his drink, staring down at it. “I wanted it to be right. I wanted to beat the science and know my heart was correct. _Just once.”_

They were both quiet for a time after that. Stan didn’t look at Ford, but he could feel his gaze on him. His face heated in embarrassment; of _course_ his smart, nerdy brother would laugh at him over knowing what Schrodinger’s Cat was, assume he got the experiment wrong, stupid Stanley once again-

His thought was interrupted by a playful punch to his arm. Stan looked over to see Ford’s smile, his left hook resting harmlessly on his shoulder. Stan’s face heated up at that; his face was so genuine and pure and just like the Ford he used to know and love.

“So _smart guy,_ I have to ask, what’s your opinion on dark matter and the eventual heat death of our universe?” Stan rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, his head in his hands. Ford laughed again, the chuckles running through his body.

“Oh _GOD_ , I learned how to be smart and now you’ll never let me forget! And as for that answer, I don’t really give a flying rat’s ass because we _both_ won’t be around to witness it. So fuck it, who cares, let all the stars become ice giants, my body would have been long swallowed by the sun at that point.” Ford grinned again and it was large, toothy, and infectious. Stan couldn’t help but grin back, and he relaxed back into his seat, feeling warmer despite the night cooling off. He tossed back his beer, finishing it in one swallow, setting it aside next to the couch and out of the way. When he straightened himself back up, Ford was looking at him again. Stan glanced his way and then his eyes darted off to his left, his cheeks feeling warm. _“What?”_ His brother sure did have a habit of staring at him tonight.

“I never really gave up on you either,” he said in a low voice. His hand slid over top of Stan’s, large and warm and with too many familiar fingers. Stan’s breathing hitched in his chest and he snapped his head back around to face Ford. His eyes were darker than Stan remembered them being - or perhaps he just wasn’t used to seeing him up close like this after all these years apart. His head swam a little bit and he jerked back, putting space between him and Ford. Ford just smiled in response and moved to pull his hand away, shrugging in the process. “I just thought you would want to know. I sometimes also thought you died, but something told me you were still alive. Twin bond, I gue-”

Stan snatched at the retreating hand with his own, scowling at Ford. Ford started and looked him, their eyes meeting. He knew what Ford was doing and Stan chewed at his cheek, trying to figure all this out. His eyes squinted at Ford and his brother looked affronted. This time, it was his twin’s turn to have the color rise to his cheeks.

“Don’t give me that _twin bond_ bullshit, Stanford. I know what this is.” Ford swallowed and looked away, and his arm tugged at his hand, hoping to pull it back. Stan, however, had different plans and he kept his grip tight around his brother’s fingers.

“I’m sorry, that was my fault, then. I guess old habits, old feelings die hard, and I needed to know for sure if you still…” Ford trailed his sentence off. Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, heart hammering in his chest. He knew it, he fucking _knew it_ , he could see it in his brother’s eyes, but he wasn’t completely sure until this very moment just now.

“This would all be so much easier if I just hated you, you know.” his voice cracked with an emotion he didn’t know he was holding back. “All of it. I could have just… walked away from that portal and left and lived a life and nobody would have ever remembered the crime I had committed in that basement.” Ford searched his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. Stan’s hand tightened around his brother’s, preventing escape.

“I brought you back because I _needed you_ , Stanford. I needed you back so I could make it right. I needed you back because I couldn’t go back to a life where I was a washed-up has been that was barely alive without the person that meant the most to me. I needed to get you back so I could tell you I was _sorry_. For everything.” He watched Ford’s eyes go wide, his mouth parting with a small breath.

“Stan, I-”

But Ford never finished the thought because in that moment, Stan took his opportunity. He pulled Ford’s hand towards him, grabbing his shoulder as the gap closed between them. He heard Ford utter a small sound before Stan’s lips met his, an awkward kiss rusty from misuse. But Stan wasn’t going to give up that easily; his grip on his brother’s hand tightened and he felt Ford squeeze back in response, a hum rumbling through his chest. Stan inhaled deeply, taking all the scents that lingered on his twin; there was now a musky, slightly sweaty odor that clung to the crisp one he’d known his whole life and never been able to forget. His head angled to his brother’s mouth and he was amazed to find how perfectly they still fit together. Heat erupted in his chest as he felt Ford pushing back into his kisses, his brother more hungry for the taste of his mouth than he ever would have hoped to believe. He felt Ford’s other hand land on his leg and he pulled away, letting out a gasped breath. Ford stared up at him, and Stan found himself grinning madly at his twin’s flushed face. Ford swallowed hard, and his mouth parted beautifully.

 _“Oh,”_ he gasped out, and it took all of Stan’s willpower not to fall into hysterical laughter.  He let the tears well up in his eyes before pulling his brother back into his grin, savoring the taste of his brother’s lips again and again and again. Whatever wall had been between them had crumbled and disintegrated completely, leaving nothing but a desperate, crushing need for their other half. And all Stanley could think, between their grinning heat and his dizzied emotions, was how damned stupidly happy he was that in this experiment, the cat was still very, _very_ much alive.


	9. The Art of Getting Over You

**Backupsmore University, 1971**

_The brave knight stood before the forest tower, sword at the ready. His charismatic and devoted partner brought up his rear, reading out statistics and magic spells. There were wards all over the tower and the wizard was quick to point all of them out and nullify them. All the better for the knight; he was not a magic user and tended to fear it since he had little defense against it. With his partner safely negating all the spells in the forest, the knight felt much more confident. He forged ahead, looking forward to the prize waiting at the top of that dank tower cell._

Carefully, thoughtfully, Stanford moved his figurine the three spaces he was allotted this turn. His 38-sided die twirled easily across his 6 fingers; it was a trick he loved doing and he was getting better and better at it every time he practiced. He glanced across the board at his roommate; Fiddleford met his eye and then glanced down at the DM rulebook, his own dice dancing in his hand. He gave them one last shake and then tossed them where they could both see the numbers; he then consulted the book, letting out a low whistle when he read the result. 

“Tough luck my man, ya got a bad roll this time; there’s a dragon waitin’ for ya.” Ford chewed his lip and added another die to his palm, giving them a hefty shake. His knight was a little too underleveled for a dragon; he’d have to get at least a 15 to combat the dragon’s hide and a 12 so that his mage was strong enough to fight off any magical resistance. He shook the dice in his hand vigorously, praying for a stroke of good luck. He tossed them down on the board and both he and Fids looked over the numbers.

18 and 8.

Ford groaned audibly while Fids laughed low and easy, making a mark in his book and writing down some statistics on the paper next to him. He then consulted the DM book one more time.

“Damn, man. Looks like your knight was strong enough to pierce the dragon’s armor, but your wizard wasn’t strong enough to stop the fire breath. A bit of a stalemate really; your knight and mage burn to a crisp while the dragon writhes in dying agony.”

Ford threw his hands up in defeat as Fids started gathering up papers and character charts. Their _Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons_ game had wrecked most of their dorm room that night. Typically they only allowed themselves to play every other Friday with their club, but it was the weekend, they both had some free time, and they were more than happy to destroy their floor with graph paper, stats, and newly-painted figurines. Tonight their game had run particularly long; Ford stretched himself and then jumped when he saw the clock next on his desk reading 1:30am. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and looked again just to be sure.

“Man, I could’ve sworn it was only 10:45pm only an hour ago.”

“That’s what ya get when ya try a run a level above what your character is,” Fids chuckled out, gathering his pieces together and putting everything in the box. He shoved it under his bed and safely out of the way.  “Destroying your knight brutally was incredibly satisfyin’.”

“I worked so hard on getting his stats just right too,” Ford moaned, sadly looking over his immaculately painted figurine. “You fought the good fight, my brave soldier.”

“Guess you’ll have to try harder next time. Until then, looks like Princess Unattainabelle remains just that; unattained.”

“Yeah, well, that just seems to be my luck with women in the world,” Ford mumbled absently through a yawn, putting his figurines back up on his desk.

“Aww, don’t be like that, friend, I’m sure there’s a dame out there for ya.” Ford grimaced despite Fiddleford’s reassurance.

“Not really my type,” he said, rearranging his figures. He said it without thinking, without really processing, but when he turned back and saw Fids _gaping_ at him, he clammed up, feeling his face heat up to a about 150 degrees.

“Oh, I-I mean, girls they aren’t really… _interesting_ to me? But not a lot of people are, I mean I-I’m not really looking, I don’t have any interest in… _I don’t really care!”_ Ford stumbled over his words, trying to pull himself out of the hole he dug but finding himself deeper than when he started. All the while, Fids just watched him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Ford suddenly became very nervous and scared and he couldn’t immediately figure out if this was a good or bad thing. On one side of the coin, Fids was a Southern Man and the South wasn’t particularly known for being… _accepting._ At the same time though, he was also very into the hippie culture and hippies were open-minded… right? ‘Free love’ and all that junk? Ford never really knew; he didn’t pay attention to such things. Instead he swallowed hard and went back to rearranging his desk, keeping his eyes anywhere and everywhere that wasn’t his roommate’s face. He was halfway through alphabetizing his entire work station when he heard Fids speak softly behind him.

“Well, that explains ‘Stanley’, then.”

Ford froze inside and out. He could have died on the spot, if not for the heart hammering in his chest that just went into double time. He whipped around and turned to face Fids again. His roommate blinked and looked slightly taken aback at the look on Ford’s face.

“Who?” Ford squeaked out, his voice cracking on the one word. He coughed and repeated the question, trying to sound nonchalant. As if that name didn’t cause him to almost have a heart attack. As if that name wasn’t one he thought about every other night despite talking to the school psychiatrist for weeks on end. As if _Stanley_ wasn’t the most hot-button name he could hear coming out of Fid’s mouth or-

“Stanley. Or ‘Stan’ or ‘Lee’. Ya say the name a lot when you’re asleep. I figured for a while ya just really had a thing for the comic guy but if that’s what you’re seeing your psychiatrist over and if ya not interested in relationships, well-”

“Is that what I say in my dreams?” His voice teetered on hysterics and he tried his best to swallow it down. “Surely you misheard because -”

“Ford. Really. I’m your roommate and closest friend in this sorry excuse for a university. I hear ya dreaming most every night ya have them. If I can memorize advanced calculus, I think I’d remember a name you repeat on a regular basis.”

Ford paled but Fids just frowned at him. It was taking all his willpower not to bolt out their dorm room door. When Ford didn’t say anything, Fids just sighed exasperatedly.

“C’mon man, ya can tell me what’s up. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll find a sad country song to fit your relationship troubles so you can listen to it when ya need to drink your misery away.”

Ford smiled at that but it didn’t reach far. He looked down and then back to Fids, who patted the floor in a friendly bid to get Ford to sit back down. He obliged, his shaky legs not wanting to carry his weight anyway. He still didn’t want to meet Fiddleford’s eyes, and he chewed his lip while he hugged his knees close.

There was only so much that he could say about the issue. For one thing, he didn’t want anyone to ever know he had a twin; not that Stan was that much of a disgrace, but he just couldn’t talk about Stan to anyone (outside of his counselor) without getting deeply, religiously emotional about it. But maybe… maybe he could work around this. Fids didn’t see Stanley as his brother just his… what? Romantic partner? Boyfriend? Significant other? Ford rubbed his eyes, his stomach dropping as those words floated through his brain. They were fitting for Stan but they were also so far from the truth. It was all so complicated. He would have be careful about this. So, so careful.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself.

_It was just an experiment._

“O-okay um, just promise this stays between us, okay?” Fids grinned and leaned forward a bit, nodding his head excitedly.

“Swear on me ma’s grave, that way you _know_ I’m deadly serious.” Ford nodded at that and took another breath, licking his lips. He chose his next words as carefully as possible.

“Well, I-I guess Stanley was my first relationship, and it was a big one. And uh, yeah, it was a guy,” He finished lamely, as if it needed to be said. Fids let out a low whistle.

“So, high school sweethearts, then?”  
  


“Yeah. you could say that. But we had known each other a long time; our whole lives, practically. It just wasn’t until junior year that I really realized… that we _both_ realized how we felt for each other. And it wasn’t really anything to do with me not being attracted to girls, I was just so caught up in my studies and he was my best friend… we were so close. But it was hard. We had to play it close to the vest - b-being both guys, and all. We grew up in Jersey, so it wasn’t a huge deal to society there, but our parents well… It was really, really low key because we didn’t want anyone to know. Our little secret, sort of thing.”

“Sounds dangerous and excitin’,” Fids said, his voice oddly hushed. Ford grinned at that, his heart skipping a beat. He wasn’t used to an audience for anything, and talking about it was giving him confidence. He decided to up the ante while he was ahead.

“It was, in a way, and that kept the secret going. But Stanley went a little too far with it, to try and keep it buried. He was… he was a little phobic about it all. A strong denial he put on to anyone’s face. To top it all off, he cheated on me with a girl.”

Fids gasped and Ford shifted uneasily. He was getting into “lying” territory, which he wasn’t as good at. Stan didn’t _really_ cheat on him with a girl, but that didn’t matter; he was telling a story now, and it didn’t matter how much of it all fit in the end. Just that Fiddleford found it convincing.

“What-what did ya do about it?”

Ford shrugged. “I broke it off, of course. Or we both did; we had a huge fight over it. Problem was, we were too close… we kept coming back to each other. Couldn’t stay away, neither of us. It wasn’t long before he was cheating on her with me, and it wasn’t long after that, that she found out. When she did, well…”

Ford trailed off, looking away. He was adding lies to the truth, sure, but this next part hit so close to home, he didn’t know if he could handle telling it. Fids eyes were as big as saucers and he leaned forward, waiting for the next part with such rapt attention Ford wondered if he’d ever seen a good romance flick.

“Did she rat you guys out to his parents?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ford swallowed. “Yeah,” he cracked out. No, she hadn’t, not really, but he has come this far. He had to make the story convincing. “And they weren’t too thrilled about it. She only wanted to get back at him, so she didn’t rat me out… I don’t think she even knew who I was. But… his parents, they kicked him out and he dropped out of school as a result and…”

_There was an empty chair. For three whole weeks, each class, at lunch, on the bus, a physical void existed next to Ford wherever he went. People stared until he noticed and their eyes averted without asking any questions. The rumors flew, the whispers surrounded him. Everyone saw it; everyone knew. Stanley Pines had run away from home and dropped out of high school, leaving his twin brother behind to carry all the broken pieces._

“…And I never saw him again. I heard he skipped town, skipped state. I…I don’t know if he’s okay, if he’s even alive…”

He doesn’t know when the tears had started falling but he felt himself reflexively reaching up to wipe the wetness now gathered on his cheeks. Fids stared at him before groping around for a tissue box. He offered it to Ford, and Ford took one, wiping his glasses.

“Well, ain’t that a case of star-crossed lovers,” he said, breathless.

“I like to think it’s more a “Much Ado About Nothing situation,” Ford said, trying to sound bemused. “It just is so much crazier and deeper than star-crossed.”

They were both quiet for a while. Ford busied his hands and his mind with cleaning his glasses and wiping his face with the tissue in his hand. Fids twiddled his thumbs, watching him carefully. They were both spent, mentally and physically. Wearily, Ford glanced at the clock; it was past 2 in the morning now. Not the latest he’s stayed up - most of his nights were sleepless any more anyway. Tonight though, the tears made his eyes itch with sleep.

“So, ya think you’ll see him again, one day? Stanley, I mean.”

Ford looked at Fiddleford tiredly and gave a half-hearted shrug. His heart made him want to say ‘yes of course’. Of course they would see each other again; Stan was his brother, his twin, his flesh and blood. He would always be at least that, even if they weren’t… anything _more_. Sure, his last chat with Stan hadn’t exactly been pleasant or even brotherly, but they would still see each other again, right? They could still, one day, be able to make up, work everything out, apologize, move on…

“I…I don’t really know. Maybe? I just don’t have the time to really think about it right now. I’m taking double credits and staying over the winter holidays here. I don’t - I don’t know where to even begin looking, let alone devote energy to it.”

“Well, just so ya know, if ya ever need to talk about it, someplace other than your dreams, well… I’m here for ya.”

Ford stared at him and smiled. It was kind of a weird feeling, splitting Stan like this. There was Stan the brother that only Dr. Monroe knew about, and now Stan the lover that Fids knew about. If he was careful, that was the only way it would stay. He would just have to play his cards right. He could do that. He had to do that.

_No one will ever know._

Ford reached out and shook his hand. Fids jumped, clearly not used to the 6-fingered contact. After a moment though, he shook the hand back obligingly.

“I’ll hold you to it, Southern boy. And thanks for-for listening. And not judging.” The color rose to Fiddleford’s cheeks and looked away, smiling.

“Shucks, well, it’s like my ma - bless her soul - always said to me. ‘Fiddles,’ she’d say, ‘you can’t judge here on Earth, or God will see it and do extra judging on you in Heaven.’ And I plan on seeing her again someday, so I love like she wanted me to. Without judgement.” Fids fidgeted in his seat, and he looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Ford felt the same way, rubbing his arm. They had both let out potentially more information than they meant to, and the night was only going to get worse at this rate. Instead, they mutually got ready for bed, silently going through their own routines, both eventually crawling to their respective beds. As Ford climbed into his loft, he heard Fids clear his throat. He paused, turning to look at him, and was surprised to see him blushing in the dark.

“So, I know we’re both probably not going to get up early, but it’s the weekend and most people will be off-campus and back home. This restaurant on campus has some really nice brunch and I love going but hate to go by my lonesome so I didn’t know if ya’d be interested in going with me…” He trailed off, staring at his feet. Ford felt his eyebrows reach his hairline.

“Sure man, I’ll go to brunch with you.” Fids jumped at that and grinned, nodding. Hastily, he crawled into his bunk and under the sheets.

“Great!” he squeaked out. “It’s a date!”

Ford was already in the process of laying down when he paused, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked back at his friend, but Fids was already asleep. Ford took a deep, steadying breath and laid down, staring at the ceiling. He felt a cold sweat on his brow and gulped down.

A date? He wasn’t sure if that was what Fids meant when he said that; he wasn’t even sure if he pegged Fids as someone _attracted_ to guys. Did he just play up being interested in women, like Stan did? Or was he maybe bisexual like Stan or…? He groaned and shook his head, trying not to let his thoughts drift to his brother too much. It was too late though; the story was bad enough; his brother was firmly supplanted in his consciousness. He tried to drift away from that, tried to think of anything besides his twin, when Dr. Monroe’s words floated up into his brain.

_“These exercises are here to help you move past this and move on. You can’t let your brother haunt you forever. You can’t be ruled by something you can’t control.”_

He rolled over and watched his sleeping roommate on the opposite wall, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure if Fid’s meant ‘date’ in that sort of way, but what if he did? What…what would it hurt? He was a nice guy, they had many of the same interests, they talked easily and without awkwardness… Besides, it could be just what the doctor ordered; another step on the road to recovery.

It could be just one more step on the road to getting over Stanley.   
  


* * *

**  
Gravity Falls, 2012**

40 years.

For 40 years Ford had tried to get over his brother, tried to move on from his memory, his past, his feelings and emotions. 30 of those years were spent in multiple dimensions, trying to eke out a living in places he didn’t really belong. He wanted to move on, to find someone knew, but he couldn’t. There was nobody else that fit him as well, that knew him so well, that clicked as well as Stan had. And it was on those cold, lonely nights when no one else was there, those were the times he let himself really remember, allowed himself to unlock the memories of when times were good, when Stan was still home, and he wasn’t being chased endlessly after making a deal with the Devil.

40 years of wanting to move on, only to circle back to the beginning. 40 years of convincing himself he didn’t feel that way anymore about his twin… only to find his lips locked to his, sharing his oxygen, drowning in his scent and strong arms and the sounds of his gasps between kisses. His eyes closed as they pushed and pulled against one another, Stan tugging hungrily at his turtleneck, doing his best to get as close to Ford as possible. He growled and Ford shuddered at the sound, his breath shaking; he could feel Stan’s grin against his lips, chuckling huskily at how Ford was practically _melting_ into him but Ford couldn’t muster up the ability to care. His brother always had that effect on him; his brain turned off and his ears rang and his blood boiled and he said a silent prayer to the thousands of different gods and cosmic powers because _Lord it has been 40 years since he’s felt like this_ , felt this completely intoxicated in someone else’s skin and touch and taste and -

“…-and I can’t believe he got _kissed,_ but that’s when things started getting really juicy!”

Ford’s eyes snapped open and he jerked away from Stan, breaking their contact completely. He stiffened, his head whipping around, heart hammering in his chest. He felt his hand clench on Stan’s shoulder; he didn’t remember putting it there but somehow it had worked it’s way around during their heated session. He chanced a glance at his brother, and he just stared back, utterly bewildered.

“Ford what- “ he started but Ford put a hand up, silencing him. He moved his head again, angling for a better listening position, his eyes and and ears straining against the night and its many sounds. He knew he wasn’t making that voice up; he heard someone’s deep voice talking far away, and he needed to make sure it wasn’t someone spying on him, or goading his behavior, or luring him out–

A low laugh rung in his ears and he stood up fast, heart jumping to his throat. He was on high alert and his hand twitched to his side, ready to grab his gun if he ever needed it. He glanced at Stan again, but his brother was even more confused. He just frowned back; couldn’t Stan hear it? Were his senses really that faded already? But Ford didn’t dwell on it; there were whispers coming from inside the Shack and he couldn’t waste any more time.

Before he could think anything else he slipped back into the foyer, listening intently. Behind him, he heard Stan move, curse, say something else but he wasn’t listening, too focused on the sounds in front of him and not behind. He loosened the gun from his holster and grabbed it tight, slinking closer to the kitchen. The whispers were louder there, and it sounded like two people conversing. Male and female, maybe? His jaw tightened and he waited to make his move. Somewhere a milion miles away, Stan tapped his shoulder trying to get his attention.

“Hey, Jack Bauer, calm down will ya? It’s just-” But Ford shrugged him off, leaping into action. He drew his gun and pointed it, hearing two screams in the process; one high pitched and the other much lower and louder. Before he could think about aiming, a hand quickly darted out, grabbing his gun while a light flicked on above him.

“Jeez Ford, relax, take it easy. Kids, what’re you doing sneaking downstairs this late at night?” Stan grumbled angrily next to Ford and Ford blinked against the onslaught of light. Eventually, his grand niece and her friend Grenda came into view, both of them staring at him, stunned. Grenda was clutching a sappy teen romance novel with the title “Almost Midnight” on the cover, while Mabel hugged a bucket of ice cream close to her chest. As Ford ashamedly holstered his gun, Grenda was the first to come back to life.

“Hello Mr. Pines! And Mr. Pine’s secret twin brother!”

“Sorry Grunkle Stan,” came Mabel’s sheepish reply. “We needed a midnight snack for Grenda. She tends to get destructive when she gets hungry.”

“Hungry for _vampire seduction,_ ” she said with an eyebrow wiggle in Mabel’s direction. Mabel giggled furiously, blushing in the process. Both Stan and Ford sighed at that, Ford pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, alright, _yeesh._ I can see why Dipper wants to stay as far away as possible from Grenda sleepovers. Here- “ Stan grabbed a knapsack and filled it with the leftover _Ducktective_ party snacks; candy, chips, popcorn, and Pitt Cola all went in. He then handed the bag over to Mabel who took it happily. “Take these upstairs with ya; if not, you’re going to give my twitchy brother an ulcer and I don’t need that kind of headache.” Ford rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

“Sorry girls, didn’t mean to intrude on your sleepover like that,” he stated, taking the cue from Stan to apologize for his behavior. Mabel simply shrugged it off and got up, carrying the bag of snacks with her. Grenda grabbed 4 more liters in her arms, just in case.

“It’s okay Grunkle Ford. I’d be twitchy too if I spent 30 years off having crazy sci-fi, interdimensional space pirate adventures.”

“Well, uh - That’s not exactly -” but he was cut off from his explanation as Stan led the girls out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to the attic. He followed them and watched as Stan disappeared from view, the two noisy, happy-go-lucky girls loudly chatting all the while. He looked away and sighed, fixing his collar absently as he did so.

He didn’t like how he had handled that. If it had been a real threat, it would have been fine. All the steps were taken correctly; he had isolated the location and pinpointed the threat, ready to neutralize. But it wasn’t a threat, it was just two girls hoping to have some midnight fun. It wasn’t some crazy gang member who had somehow found their way to this side of the portal, who had crawled from one dimension to the next looking for him. He swallowed at the thought and instinctively pulled himself from the stairs landing, making a beeline for the gift shop vending machine.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

Ford rested his head on the plexiglass and turned to look at Stan, who was at the bottom of the stairs now. He folded his arms and walked toward Ford, never taking his eyes off of him.

“Downstairs. It’s where I tend to spend my time. I think your room is in the opposite direction; upstairs, where the kids sleep.”

Stan walked into the gift shop and leaned against the wall, shrugging. He folded his arms and Ford gave him a quick up-down. He still looked slightly disheveled from their kissing bout; his hair was mussed and his shirt open just enough to show off his collar bone. Not wanting to be caught looking, he darted his eyes back up to his brother’s face, wetting his lips.

“Yeah, well, funny me, I felt like being charitable to poor Dipper tonight. He’s using my room so he doesn’t have to deal with Mabel and her friend all night.”

“That was awfully thoughtful of you.” Ford absently punched in the code for the basement, stepping back to allow the door to swing open. The cool air of the basement wafted up on his face and he sucked it in like a lifeline. “Guess you’ll have to find a place to sleep then.”

“First things first, Ford.” Ford turned to look at him, and his brother was watching him carefully. He chucked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the kitchen. “What the heck was that just now. One second we have a good thing going on, the next you’re stalking the kids like you’re taking out a terrorist.”

“Ah,” he said simply. He leaned on the open door and wiped his mouth. “I swear that was lucid, but I…over reacted. Just know I have a lot enemies on the other side, and I still fear them finding their way here and doing their best to take me out… or worse.” Stan raised an eyebrow at that, but Ford shook his head. He looked around and then waved him downstairs. They both entered the dark staircase and let the vending machine close behind them. On their way down, Stan piqued his further inquiry.

“So what, got a bounty on your head? Need to watch your back too?”

“You could say that. But I bet my price is a bit more than anything on your head, Stan. People think you’re dead, remember?”  Stan laughed.

“Yeah but you didn’t get banned from every one of the lower 48.”

“No, I just got banned from at least 50 multiverses.”

“What a pissing contest this is,” he said. “But that’s the Pines boys for ya, I suppose. Bad luck and trouble just runs through our veins.” He grinned mischievously.  “Let’s see if it amplifies now that we’re together again.”

Ford called the elevator and gave his brother a steady, searching stare. Stan just looked back, his features softening. Ford couldn’t handle it; couldn’t see his face like that. His throat constricted and he looked away, scratching at his hair.

“Or you know, we could just drop it and forget it. I don’t _need_ trouble right now, Stan. I don’t-”

The elevator dinged and opened.

Stanley Pines growled and pounced on his brother, pushing him into the elevator box and slamming the down button.

Ford gasped against his brother’s weight on his but there was barely and time to process what happened before Stan’s mouth was back on his, his tongue taking advantage of Ford’s slightly parted lips. Heat erupted in his chest and he closed his eyes and groaned into his brother, tongue working against his. He squirmed under Stan as his hands traveled down his arms, searching under his sweater, traveling his stomach, his chest… Ford rolled his head back and gasped as Stan’s lips left his for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I bet you _really_ want to forget this feeling, Poindexter,” he rumbled out against Ford’s skin, and Ford almost lost himself in the feeling of Stan’s hot breath on his throat. Goosebumps erupted and he heard another ding - they had reached the 3rd floor. He pushed against Stan, moving towards the open floor, but Stan wouldn’t let him go easy. Another set of hungry kissing met his mouth as Stan practically swept him off his feet and into the portal entrance area. Ford stumbled a bit before finding himself, and he grabbed Stan’s shoulders again to try and gain distance - or at the very least, proper footing. Stan was certainly making it hard though, doing his best to drown his brother in that which he had deprived himself for over half his life.

“And here I thought _you’d_ be the one to get over this - over _us,_ ” Ford gasped out, and that seemed to hit home for Stan. He stiffened up and brought his head back to look at his brother.

“What? _Why?”_ Stan asked, as if the statement was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Ford straightened up and stepped back. It gave him a better look at his brother, how upset he looked, how the anger boiled just underneath. He licked his lips again and looked away.

“Because… you could always find someone else. You could have always looked away and to other people. I couldn’t.”

“Hell Sixer, I always thought _you_ would move on. But I guess something happened because I saw that look in your eye; you looked like you wanted to devour me upstairs. I thought for sure, with the way you brushed me off, the way you completely _ignored me_ after coming home that-”

Now it was Ford’s turn to steel up, to go hard with anger.

“You think I didn’t _try,_ Stanley? You don’t think I tried to move on from you? From the memory of when you left home, of everything we went through?” Stan leaned back, not expecting the outburst from his brother. “I kept my distance to protect you, I alike I always have, but then you go and tell me you _need_ me, that you always did, that I’m the person that meant the most to you…” He growled and grabbed tight to Stan’s shoulders. Now it was his turn to throw Stan off-guard, to crush him with his lips, to smother him in the pent-up emotions he had been holding back, the raging fervor boiling just below the surface of his skin, begging to come screaming out. Stan groaned loudly when Ford’s tongue tangled with his, reciprocating happily, fingers threading through Ford’s hair, pulling him closer.

“And you know the worst part about it, Stan?” he gasped out between kisses, the words coming out in ragged huffs on his brother’s skin. “You know the worst part?” A tongue on the throat, the feeling of a body shuddering under him. “There’s dozens of dimensions I visited, where this… this type of relationship?” Six fingers grabbed a thigh, digging in, pulling it close. “It’s a socially acceptable situation, completely _normal,_ ” The last words came out as a growl, as if they had personally offended him. Stan only gripped him tighter, his voice rough and his laugh rougher.

“Bet that musta just killed ya, huh?” He laughed but the sounded tightened as Ford retaliated with another kiss, this time to Stan’s throat, where he sucked deeply, pulling out every sound. He reveled in it; _God_ he had forgotten how much he loved Stan’s skin when it was all there for him to enjoy and taste and play with.

“It killed me because I couldn’t enjoy a place like that, a dimension like that, with _you,”_ he growled out against Stan’s skin, causing him to shiver. “But no, instead I was trying my damndest to forget you, convincing myself you never existed.”

Stan stiffened under him, his breath hitching. Before Ford could ask what was wrong, Stan was pushing himself away forcefully, glaring down at his brother, his eyes dark. Ford felt the ice bucket fall and fumbled to recover.

“Stan what - No I didn’t mean it like -”

“Like what? Like hell, Ford, one minute you’re telling me you never gave up on me, the next you’re telling me you tried to forget I existed? I mean, I know I stooped that low, I did my best to forget ‘Stan Pines’ but I never forgot you, I never forgot what I was working for every day and night!”

“It was a way to protect you over there, Stan just listen, hear me out-”

“Can it Poindexter, okay? I get it. I won’t deal with this if all you’re gonna do is back-and-forth me. I’m too old for that teen shit, so whatever, go on, forget me, if you tried hard enough maybe -”

“I can’t because you’re _unforgettable,_ Stanley!” Ford yelled out, stopping his twin dead in his tracks. His fists were balled up, and he glared at Stan as he stood in front of him, doing his best not to ram his knuckles into his cheekbone. Instead, he grabbed the anger rushing out of him and tossed it square at Stan, daring him to catch it.

“You’re so pig-headed sometimes, Stan. I have enemies, I have had them for years now. While I was out there, hopping dimensions? Many of them tried to break me, physically, mentally, emotionally. None of them ever could though, because nobody knew about _you_.” He pointed a finger at Stan, who clamped his mouth shut tight. “I kept many secrets Stan; it became my _business_ to keep secrets because I was good at it. But the biggest secret I kept was you. Nobody knew. Nobody ever knew the truth. I did my best to convince myself that you didn’t exist and I did it so well, everyone believed me. That way, I couldn’t be destroyed because nobody could find that which could utterly shatter me to pieces. I forgot you so that I could make sure, one day, no matter how broken I was, I would still be whole… for you.”

Stan stared at him, trying to process everything he just heard. Ford took a step toward him and reached out to him, not unkindly. Stan flinched but didn’t pull away when six strong fingers cradled his cheek and Ford watched Stan’s expression falter, his eyes wet. Ford watched him, his eyes softening. He leaned in and gave Stan a tender kiss on the cheek; his brother just sighed out a breath and leaned into him.

“I was so selfish, Stan, so many times. I still am, because after so many years of running, of being scared and hopeless and haunted and lost…there was only one place I felt like myself. And that was with you.” His voice was low now, hardly a whisper against Stan’s ear, and he rubbed his thumb against his cheek, holding him there. Stan’s face fell on his shoulder and rested there, and both of them said nothing for a time. Instead they stood there, leaning against one another, faces side by side, neither wanting to be the first to pull away and break the contact. Ford simply spent the time breathing Stan in, curling his fingers through his hair, memorizing all the little bits he was relearning up close. After a few moments though, Ford felt Stan going limp next to him and gently pulled him to the bed, both of them sitting down.

“C’mon Stan, it’s late,” he said gently, rubbing his arm absently as they sat on the bed together. He thought Stan asleep, or at least halfway there, so he was surprised when his brother reached up and grabbed his face gently, pulling it towards him. He expected another round of kisses but Stan was more interested in the other aspects of his face; the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes. Each one he caressed with a gentle brush of the lips, and Ford hummed, affection erupting in his chest.

“Was it really that bad in there, Ford?” he whispered quietly, his voice strained. Ford swallowed and gave the barest of nods.

“You’d be proud of the powers I’ve pissed of, Stan.” his brother laughed at that and just pulled Ford into a tight, full body hug. Ford blinked, but brought his arms up to wrap around Stan’s large back. It was a stupid thing to blush over, but there he was, his face heating up over a small, inconsequential action.

“Yeah well, I’ll tell ‘em to piss off if they ever come looking for ya here. My brother is home and there will be hell to pay if they think they can just undo 30 years of my hard ass work.” Ford laughed but Stan just tightened his grip. “not kidding Sixer; they’ll have to pull you from my cold dead hands. They aren’t getting you back unless they wanna pay the price.”

“Oh, and what’s that price?” Ford asked, humored by his brother’s over-protectiveness.

“Well, I don’t keep 10 guns lying around for nothing, let’s just say that. Touch you, and that someone’s in serious trouble.” Ford laughed so easily it hurt. Yes, he was trouble alright, but so was his brother. And when they got together, well, Stan wasn’t wrong when he said their trouble only increased. But this…? Breathing in his brother’s heat, feeling his solid mass next to him?

Well damn if that wasn’t the best kind of trouble he could ever have.

Ford pulled away for a moment, taking Stan’s face in his hands. Stan just looked at him, tired lingering around his edges. Ford kissed him once before pulling away, his jaw set.

“No more experiments,” He said solidly. Stan’s eyes widened, all of his fatigue fleeing in an instant. Instead he pulled Stanford close, his lips eagerly meeting his as Ford wrapped his arms around him, falling back onto the bed.

It was about time he made good on a promise spoken over a lifetime ago.


End file.
